A Figment Of His Imagination
by Teanni
Summary: “Did you sleep with him?” Since Chase had asked the question it seemed to echo in her head constantly. This one tiny little question would turn out to have a lot of consequences for Cameron and House...House/Cameron. Spoilery for the end of season 4.
1. It's All In Your Head

**Disclaimer**: Written out of fan-appreciation I do neither own House m.d. nor any other characters that appear on that show, I just borrowed them to play around with, so don't sue, please? Oh, and I kind of snatched parts of the dialogue between House and Amber from the bus scene in Wilson's Heart...

UN-BETAFIED! Yap, it's all my fault.

"Did you sleep with him?" Since Chase had asked the question, it seemed to echo in her head constantly. Of course, she hadn't. After all she was smart enough to know that it would eventually end in tears. Hell, it would have been a disaster of apocalyptic dimensions. Yes, maybe that was her drama queen side talking there, but honestly, if you thought about it, what would have been the consequences? Well, first and foremost of all, she could have probably waved her job bye-bye, besides House would have constantly rubbed it in her face. He would have done something mature like telling everyone how she looked naked. No, wait a minute! Maybe he would have even taken photos to show them around like trophies afterwards.

So if she rationally knew that it wouldn't have been a good idea, why wasn't she able to let it go? Maybe it was because Chase wasn't able to either. Earlier she had refused to answer his question in front of the others. You simply didn't ask your girlfriend in front of a group of half-strangers, plus Foreman, whether she slept with her ex-boss and has given you a STD. You simply didn't! It had been completely uncalled for. Besides what would they be thinking of her now? That she was sleeping around the hospital? That she was a thirty year old adult lusting after House like some smitten teenage girl?

Why hadn't Chase stopped to think before he had opened his mouth? She had worked long and hard to get over House and to grow into an independent, more confident version of herself. She didn't need her boyfriend to question that of all people. House was Chase's Achilles Heel. The brief mention of his name usually got him sulking. Sometimes it even provoked an argument. Yet again he had been bowling with him last weekend. The ghost of House seemed to be forever hovering over their relationship.

The trouble was that her feelings for House were still there, which was admittedly pathetic, but she just couldn't help it. Whatever the reasons were, there was always that old residue of feelings in the background of every conversation she shared with House, each moment they spent together. It wasn't obtrusive. It wasn't like she spent every waking moment thinking 'Gosh, you're in love with that man!' The feeling was just there. It had faded, but it never went away entirely.

She had moved on. Moved on to a relationship that was real and not only taking place in her head and she had become a stronger better person thanks to it. Because even she had to admit to herself that it was not exactly a bright idea to keep hoping that eventually House would come around and notice that she loved him. Still, he was her weak spot.

Even though she was working in the ER now and there were actually a couple of floors separating them, she occasionally felt the urge to go and see him. These days she didn't even try to make excuses for it. When she felt like meeting up with him in the cafeteria or dropping by to talk with him over coffee, she did. What amazed her though, was the fact that he took it in stride without making any comments about her showing up unexpectedly. Astonishingly her camaraderie was easy, maybe three years of working together were to thank for that. She knew which topics to stay clear of and he refrained from pushing her buttons constantly. Or maybe she was imagining that because by now she had gotten used to the fact that every conversation with House was a test.

With those thoughts inside her head she sat inside the deserted cafeteria, stirring listlessly inside a cup of coffee that had long gone cold. She could see her reflection in the window and she kept staring at herself with a vacant expression on her face, just because there was nothing else to look at. The world outside the window was a homogenous mass of bluish black mass, thanks to the rain and the darkness. The glass pane was like a mirror or better yet, her own private gigantic review mirror.

Before she saw him approaching, she heard his trademark gait. _Cane, screech of rubber soles on linoleum floor as he briskly rounded a corner, cane again, step, cane, step._ As he drew back the chair, it emitted a long drawn squeaking noise as if it wanted to protest. He sat down opposite of her, stretching out his long legs, which forced her to withdraw her own legs and acknowledge his presence in some way or another. She decided on watching him with a quirked eyebrow as he wordlessly opened the crinkly wrapper of a chocolate bar.

"I can already see your mouth watering, Cameron. No chocolate for you. I wouldn't want to ruin your diet. Fat women are unattractive anyways." He took a huge bite of the chocolate bar, devouring have of it in the process. "See, I'm actually doing you a favour," he added talking around the food in his mouth.

"According to Chase, we slept together." She didn't know what possessed her to blurt it out like that, but her motives were her smallest worry at that time. The things that were first and foremost on her mind were House sitting there, staring at her, frozen mid-chew and the fact that she had never felt more embarrassed in her life.

Of course, House recovered quickly from the initial shock. He flashed her a broad chocolaty grin. "Sorry, that must have slipped my mind. A pity. Was it any good?"

"Well, you can ask your interns about that." She leaned forward, the cup of cold coffee enclosed in her hands. She was thankful it was there for her to hold on to. "I'm sure their already concocting the wildest theories about when, where and how."

"How about we add some fuel to the fire? Mess with their little heads for a while? You in?" he grinned evilly, clearly amused by the idea.

"I think I might have to pass," she answered, looking past him, instead of straight at him.

"Oh, don't be such a spoilsport, Cameron!" Out of the corners of her eyes she saw his expression fall. The mock enthusiasm disappeared and was replaced by ill-concealed curiosity. "Are you afraid Chase is going to sit down in a corner and cry his heart out?"

"No, I'd just rather you let it go without making a fuss about it."

"And why's that?" he enquired. "Besides I think I won't. Miss out on all the fun? Never."

"House, please!" This time she looked directly at him. She could see that her vehemence surprised him. There were several different emotions playing over his face – surprise, shock, realization. All in a matter of seconds, then his face was unreadable again.

His reaction made her uncomfortable. It had been a while since something significant or meaningful had happened between the two them. Their brief meetings hardly inspired anything other than small talk. But now they were scratching the surface again. The surface of something deeper, more dangerous.

"Promise me you won't make this into some kind of joke. Just let it go for once." Her voice was not pleading. Its tone was determined, sincere.

"Alright," he said slowly, regarding her with a pensive expression on his face.

She gave him a brief nod as she got up from her chair. For some reason she felt the need to get away from him, preferably now. Once again she was skidding dangerously close to the edge. Past and present were threatening to blur, old feelings were stirring. She had to get away from him, so she could return to that peaceful, collected state of mind were her crush on him was reduced to mere white noise in the background of her existence.

While she walked away, she felt his eyes on her back. She wondered what he was thinking now.

House was sitting inside the empty cafeteria. The crumbled up wrapper of a chocolate bar in his hand, he stared at the window pane opposite of him. Its reflection showed a lot of empty tables and a middle-aged doctor that was looking somewhat pensive. Cameron's words were echoing in his head. "According to Chase, we slept together." He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms behind his head, wondering how it might feel.


	2. It's Not Just In Your Head

Disclaimer: Written out of fan-appreciation I do neither own House m

**Disclaimer**: Written out of fan-appreciation I do neither own House m.d. nor any other characters that appear on that show, I just borrowed them to play around with, so don't sue, please?

**As the one before UN-BETAED. Had to get it out of my system.**

She was slouching in her comfortable armchair in front of the TV. The movie that was on was actually quite interesting. It was one of her favourites. She only watched it when she wanted to have a good cry. Today she felt melancholy enough for that, but unfortunately she was too distraught to actually follow the plot, which also prevented any kind of emotional involvement. Right when the part she liked best started, she was about to zone out again. She was still watching, but her own thoughts drowned out the dialogue on screen completely.

The whole hospital gossip about her alleged sexual intercourse with House, was bugging her more than she liked to let on. Of course she had eventually gotten a hold of a still sulking Chase before she had left the hospital to drive into a bleak and rainy night. Their exchange hadn't gone well. He had called her a liar when she had again denied having slept with House. She had gotten more upset, because he just wouldn't get it through that thick skull of his that she was actually telling the truth. It was like some kind of vicious circle.

They seemed to be constantly stuck on replaying that scene, which was unfortunate really, because they actually saw each other very little these days. Cameron would have liked to think that it would make them actually appreciate their time together more, but instead of that they more and more often vented their frustration on each other. And there was a lot of frustration to vent: double shifts, stress, comparatively low wages despite of the hard work they did, not even having enough time to spend that money, because free time seemed to be the kind of luxury only the higher-ups could afford and what apparently came as a cherry on top – work induced asexuality. Even sex often seemed like too much of an effort after having pulled an all-nighter at the hospital.

But that wasn't the problem. The problem was that with the right person it wouldn't have been that big a deal. Cameron rolled her eyes at her own thoughts. _When had she regressed into that degree of romantic ingenuity?_ Of course, it was always a big deal, just that when you really loved someone enough, things could get sucky and you'd still try to make it work somehow. But even if she had made an effort, what good would it do if Chase didn't do so as well? And for some odd reason she had a feeling he wouldn't.

It was rather ironic that her own words now came back to haunt her. She remembered herself telling Chase how he was convenient and that she would never fall in love with him. _Oh, but she had!_ After she had actually allowed herself to love him, she had found it a quite easy thing to do. But occasionally she had still wondered, even when they still were in the rose-coloured glasses stage of their relationship, how it would be to be with someone else. Chase was a sweet guy. He cared, he had made an effort, that is initially, but after a while it became all about that toothpaste being squeezed out of the tube the wrong way and his socks lying around everywhere. And it shouldn't have bothered her, but it did. It bothered her a lot.

She realized that she couldn't go on existing like that with a relationship that was disintegrating before her very eyes. She didn't deserve this and neither did Chase.

Strangely now she had no trouble at all crying, even if the movie flickering over the screen in front of her was slowly but steadily steering towards the inevitable happy ending.

The ER was like the war zone of Princeton Plainsboro. It was loud, very busy and all sorts of bodily fluids were leaking out of patients. _Yuck! Even in his head that description sounded slightly disgusting._

Up there in diagnostics Cameron had always appeared to work well-coiffed (except for that time when she had gotten high, of course) and rather nicely dressed. Whenever he dropped by the ER out of sheer boredom or to hide from Cuddy nowadays, she was wearing those ridiculous pink scrubs and her hair was always swept up in a messy bun. Those changes did not actually lessen her attractiveness, which was odd. Because when it came for attractiveness he rather appreciated it if it was flaunted directly in his face like Cuddy did with her ogle inviting cleavages and her tight little skirts. What he found interesting about Cameron was that she had turned from lobby art to something less sterile, more tangible.

He had involuntarily spent a lot of time contemplating her since they met up in the cafeteria that evening two weeks ago. Oddly enough he had upheld his end of the bargain and not started bragging unabashedly about bedding his pretty ex-fellow. It would have been a big fat lie anyway. What was even stranger than this sudden growth of a moral backbone was the fact that he couldn't seem to stop thinking of Cameron. Naked Cameron, sweaty Cameron, moaning when they had sex Cameron. He was starting to fear he was obsessing over her and that maybe, if it didn't go away soon, he should pay the psyche ward a visit.

Perhaps it wasn't exactly the smartest idea going down to the ER now either. Around eight in the evening was usually the time, when things were a bit more laid back. The drunkies would arrive later on, around tenish, emitting the delicate smell of fresh puke. So it was better to strategically schedule his visit before that, because that particular floral scent was a certified mood killer.

"Doctor Cameron?" he asked the nurse behind the desk instead of greeting.

Apparently his reputation preceded him because the woman didn't even comment on his rudeness. "Turn left. Down the corridor, third door on the right side."

He didn't hold himself up with thanking her and was on his way before the nurse could elaborate beyond giving mere directions._ Good heavens, the last thing he needed to hear now was small talk!_ He was rather quickly down that corridor, his rubber soles squeaking obnoxiously on the gleaming floor thanks to the energetic bounce in his amble.

"I've seen you coming," Cameron informed him coolly when he entered the room, scarcely furnished with some tattered looking office chairs, filing cabinets, a small niche where the nurses prepared the coffee and a long desk on which a patients file was lying she had been probably working on moments ago. Of course, there were also all those nifty surveillance monitors.

"And yet you didn't run. Lucky me," he shot back before he slumped down in the office chair next to her.

"Hiding from Cuddy?"

"Nope," he annoyingly popped the 'p'.

"Wilson and Amber?"

"Wrong again. One more and then you're out."

She sighed. Apparently she wasn't in the mood for games today, so he stopped talking altogether, hoping that she would no longer feel the need to ask him why he had come. He was oddly nervous and a nervous House made a bad liar.

"Is there anything I can do for you? I'm kind of busy here," she said, sounding unusually tetchy.

"I've heard about Chase. I came to offer my condolences."

"Gee, thanks. Rumour sure travels fast around here." She ran her hand through her hair, unaware that she was mussing it up in the process. It was only then he noticed the dark circles under her eyes. For someone who was said to be oh so observant, he was sure slow on the uptake today.

"You're just curious about the juicy details, aren't you?" she suddenly asked him out of the blue and ripped him out of his reverie.

"What? No, actually your life isn't that interested. You and Chase?" he yawned to make a point. "It would be more interesting if it was you and Thirteen, because that's the stuff of legends are made of. Ever thought about experimenting a little bit?"

"What do you want, House?" Cameron was looking like she was developing a severe migraine. Or maybe that was just the facial expression she wore when she was trying hard not to strangle him.

Now actions had to be taken before her patience could wear any thinner. A bitchy woman wasn't something he wanted to deal with.

"I was wondering…" he started uncharacteristically hesitant.

"Yeah?"

"Well, how about a couple of drinks at the nearest bar to mourn the loss of your beloved Chase properly? And who knows? Maybe you'll be even able to churn out a few salty droplets into a tumbler of whisky? I hear that helps the healing process along. So what do you say?" he rambled out quickly.

His nervousness seemed to have escaped her or else she wouldn't have doubted his motives. "Why?"

"What do you mean why? I just said why, didn't I?"

"That's the problem. It's something a normal human being with an actual soul would say in a situation like that, you, however, aren't a normal human being…So what's the ulterior motive? There's got to be one." She looked at him suspiciously through narrowed eyes.

"Who? Me? Ulterior motive? I'm a pretty straight forward kind of fellow," he answered dryly, at which Cameron broke out in laughter.

"No, seriously. Tell me! I won't be mad," she said brushing the tears from the corners of her eyes with the back of her hand.

"Alright." He cleared his throat and stuck out his chin challengingly. "Remember? I asked you for a drink about a year ago? You refused. I don't give up easily."

"Why don't you try and ask Thirteen or Cuddy? Shouldn't they be your first choice? After all that new piece of lobby art needs to be shown around a bit." There was a hint of bitterness in her voice, but the exhausted undertone was more prevalent. She was tired of four years of constant back and forth that always ended up nowhere. "See, I'm not trying to be an uber-bitch here…"

"Could have fooled me," he muttered.

She rolled her eyes, then continued talking. "I'm just trying to make sure, you're clear about what and who you're asking ."

"Yes, you're Allison Cameron, right? The girl who quit her job to get a date with me."

"I'm not that girl anymore. That was three years ago," she corrected him matter-of-factly.

"Oh, right! Now you're the ice queen of the ER, I forgot." he was rapidly losing his patience with her. She knew him well enough to know that asking her out wasn't easy for him. What made matters worse was the fact that she was making it particularly hard for him.

"I can't believe you've just said that."

"And I can't believe you're being such a bitch." He got out of his chair. It rolled back a couple of inches thanks to his momentum. "Just forget I've ever asked."

When House was already halfway out the door, he heard her call out to him. "Pick me up around eleven. We're going over to McGinty's. You're paying."

He paused momentarily, his hand hovering over the doorknob. "Alright," he grumbled, then slammed the door behind him as he left the room. Well, that had been strangely liberating. When he was halfway down the corridor his grim expression turned into a satisfied smile. Too late he noticed the surveillance camera that was hanging over there in the corner. Damn! Maybe she hadn't been watching.

Back in the break room Cameron turned away from the surveillance monitors, shaking her head and smiling. This would turn out to be an interesting evening.


	3. Mind Games

**Disclaimer**: Written out of fan-appreciation I do neither own House m.d. nor any other characters that appear on that show, I just borrowed them to play around with, so don't sue, please?

He had turned up at exactly 11 pm, which was, at least by his standards, quite the achievement. She was starting to get suspicious by the time the reached McGinty's without experiencing any kind of mishaps on the way there. This was House after all. With him around, things rarely went as smoothly as one would expect them to. She wasn't exactly waiting for something bad to happen, but when it did, it would at least not catch her by surprise.

They entered the bar, immediately submerged by its atmosphere: the sound of different conversations mixing with each other, music playing in the background, the clinging of glasses. It was noisy, but not in an unpleasant way. If she had to pick one adjective to describe the place, it probably would have been 'laid-back' and that was exactly the reason why she had suggested they'd go there in the first place. One would have to make an effort to feel uncomfortable here. Apparently House managed to nevertheless and that quite effortlessly.

For some inexplicable reason he froze immediately after the first few feeble steps inside. She stepped next to him watching him from the corner of her eyes, trying to be subtle about the fact that his reaction preoccupied her. She waited impatiently for him to speak his verdict.

"This won't work," he said after a while, observing his surroundings critically through narrowed eyes.

She sighed. "Why?"

"Too normal," he answered.

He threw her a sideways glance, only to check whether the quizzical expression he half expected to see on her face was really there. It was. So further explanation was needed, which was something he wasn't particularly keen on offering.

"I already knew you were," she paused contemplating her choice of words, "eccentric, but that's certainly taking it to new extremes."

"Well, you wouldn't want to have a repeat performance from last time, would you? Unless you're in for that masochistic crap, which I expect you to for some reason. After all you've been with pretty boy for almost a year," he threw back at her, already making his way towards the door.

"I didn't know you were keeping track of the time," she answered, smiling smugly at his retreating back as she followed a few steps behind. "So is that's all? We're just going to shake hands then and go our separate ways?"

At that he stopped and turned around to fix her with a disapproving frown. "Do you want it to be?"

For some reason this moment seemed decisive. A year back she would have given a straight forward answer, now she preferred to conceal it in a sarcastic comment like liquor filling in a chocolate truffle. He had been a good teacher. "Well, the prospect of stretching out in front of the TV with a glass of wine is quite tempting actually…Tell me what you have in mind and maybe I'll tag along. That is if it sounds interesting."

"I just wanted to hear a 'yes' or a 'no'," he looked at her sternly. "So?"

For some reason she only managed to nod at him in silent agreement, her expression grim and somewhat resigned. He just smiled, knowing fully well that once again he had come out the winner of this little game, but only with some difficulty. She was slowly but steadily growing into a worthy adversary. Fortunately he liked the competition.

It was Andrew's first week working at the fast food joint. He wasn't the first in his family to do so. As a matter of fact his older brother had started this particular family tradition, trying to save enough money for a car. After the car it had been college. It had all worked out fine for him, so Andrew was determined to follow in his footsteps.

He'd even inherited his t-shirt and the stupid little cap they were supposed to wear while doing things as intellectually taxing as flipping burgers and salting fries that were dripping with fat. What he didn't expect, however, was that he would have to put up with demanding and down-right evil customers, such as the middle-aged tall man currently standing in front of him.

He was observing the board over their heads pensively sucking on his bottom lip. Since they was no one waiting in line behind him, except for that gorgeous blonde that had come in with him, he had all the time in the world. Apparently he also had every intention on taking it, just to torture Andrew.

"So, the double-cheeseburger special, the chicken wings, extra large fries….What sauce would you like to go with it, sir?" Andrew asked anxious to speed up the decision making process.

"No, idea," the man grinned at him cheerfully, apparently determined to make his life a living hell. "Andrew," he read his name tag with a glint in his eye that left the owner of said name with an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach. "Tell me, Andrew, what do you have to offer?"

"We've got honey mustard, barbecue, sweet & sour, honey, ketchup, hot mustard, chilli and plum," he rambled out all sauces in one breath.

The man opposite of him looked pensive, then turned around to the woman, who was obviously his girlfriend, though Andrew was by now convinced that bastard didn't deserve her at all.

"What do you think, honey?" House droned out in an exaggeratedly sweet voice. "I think I've got some trouble making up my mind today. Oh, and do you want to get the Cesar's salad so we can share?"

She let out an annoyed huff, apparently also not too happy with her boyfriend's behaviour. "Ketchup will do just fine," she told Andrew.

He pressed the corresponding button on the cash register with a certain amount of satisfaction, the kind you felt after completing a particular taxing task.

"And he'll have a Coke to go with it," she added determinedly before House could continue playing his game of torture with the poor pimple faced teenager behind the desk.

"Don't I get to have any say in that?" House looked at Cameron with a mock pout.

"No, not anymore," she smiled and gently shoved him aside to place her own order, for which she needed approximately 30 seconds, instead of the those excruciating 30 minutes House had applied to the task.

"I want a Strawberry Frosty," her date whined in the background, apparently set on behaving like a five-year-old for the better part of the night.

"Oh my God!" she rolled her eyes dramatically. House had to absolutely love this. Not only did he get to torture a poor teenager, flipping burgers to able to pay for college, he also got an additional rise out of her as well, which would clearly be marked up as bonus in his twisted, but brilliant mind.

"Get him his damned Frosty!" Cameron growled at the young man, before she indicated House to pay with a sharp nod of her head. She stalked off right after that, leaving House to deal with the tray laden with food all one his own. It turned out an impossible task thanks to his cane.

"Give me a hand, will you?" he looked at the young man behind the desk with a disapproving frown. He didn't like having to ask for help.

Andrew didn't budge an inch. After the way this man had treated him, the hell he was going to help him out now.

"You know I can always play the cripple card." The teenager gulped overcome by a dreadful sense of foreboding. "First week on the job, right? I bet your boss wouldn't take it too well if he heard any complaints about you…"

Andrew was around the corner in the blink of an eye. House followed him with a self-satisfied smirk on his face, as the boy carried the tray over to the table were Cameron was waiting for him. After having disposed of it, Andrew disappeared as fast as possible, leaving the couple alone.

"Nice place," House settled in opposite of Cameron still smirking.

"Yeah, wonderful," she replied as she snatched her salad from the tray.

"You seem a bit tetchy," he observed.

"Do I?" she asked sarcastically.

"It's barely noticeable," he made a dismissive gesture with his hand.

"Was that really necessary?" Cameron asked indicating the desk with a nod.

"No, but it was fun."

She sighed. He would never change. Not in a million years. The scary thing about it was that she was getting used to him - his character, his way of dealing with people. She could either accept it or despair. She chose not to despair and stole one of his fries instead and succeeded because he was currently engrossed taking a huge bite of his burger, for which two hands were needed. The temptation of bringing matters to a head was too strong, so she dipped the fry into the foamy crown of the Frosty right before his comically widened eyes.

"You're disgusting," he managed to get out after he had swallowed down the food in his mouth.

"Really, House, so quick to judge when you haven't even given it a try…"

"Oh, God! This can only mean one thing…Chase got you pregnant!" he looked at her in mock horror. "Well, that would sort of put a damper on our budding romance, 'cause I don't date knocked up women. Could give them all sorts of strange ideas, like trying to convince me I'm the father."

She actually laughed at that. "I'm not pregnant and if I was, you wouldn't be my first choice as a foster father."

"Ouch! Then who would be?"

"Wilson."

"Wilson?" He repeated in a slightly higher pitch. "Now you're trying to be mean on purpose."

"Really? Look how you've just treated that poor fast food guy! If that's any indication of how you'd behave around your children…Let's just say I would have been better of with Tritter."

"Now, Cameron, that comment was really tasteless and very far beneath the belt," he said accusingly, while he dipped one of his fries into the Frosty as well. He thoughtfully chewed on it for a while, then spoke his verdict sounding almost appreciative. "But that's actually tasty. You may be on to something there."

"You're the first to think so…"

"A match made in heaven. Aren't we?" His comment was only half-heartedly sarcastic and made her wonder if he was partly serious. She was momentarily taken aback.

"House, I think I'm not ready yet…"

"Hush!"

"You don't even know what I'm trying to say," she said indignantly.

"Oh, but I do," he looked at her intently. The unidentifiable expression in his eyes made her shiver ever so slightly. It was unidentifiable, because she had never seen it before. She was still trying to pinpoint it when he continued to speak. "I'm not ready yet either."

She held his gaze, nodding slowly. The realization of what his truly words meant, however, began to dawn on her only gradually. When she was finally able to tear away from his hypnotizing blue eyes, she didn't know how much time had passed. But apparently it had been more than she suspected.

"Shit! Now my burger's cold." House rolled his eyes in frustration. "Hey, kid!" he yelled across the diner.

It had despite all turned out to be a pleasant evening and to her surprise he had actually decided to be gentlemanly for once and walk her back to her car, though he quickly burst that particular bubble by declaring that he had parked his motorcycle somewhere near there.

"Okay, then. This is me, I guess…," she said, nervously fingering her keys inside her coat pocket.

"Yeah," he answered simply, about to walk away from her.

"Listen," she blurted out abruptly, immediately regretting that minor glitch, knowing fully well that now it was too late to back-pedal. "I just want to know. Was that…I don't know…one of those just this once and then never again kind of deals?"

He just stood at there looking at her quietly, half of his face hidden in the shadows. She had the distinct feeling of being seized up and judged once again like he had done so many times before. He often seemed to feel the need re-evaluate her. More than with other people at least. By now she had gotten used to it, so she bore it without flinching.

He never answered, instead he took a step towards her. She was surprised, but didn't retreat, waiting curiously what was about to happen. Her heart was beating wildly inside her chest when he bent down to kiss her on the cheek, his three-day stubble grazing her skin.

"No, it wasn't," he threw her one last lope-sided smirk before he turned and left her standing there completely and utterly speechless.

_I finally relent. TBC :)_


	4. Daydreaming

Disclaimer: Written out of fan-appreciation I do neither own House m.d. nor any other characters that appear on that show, I just borrowed them to play around with, so don't sue, please?

He opened the door with so much gusto it hit the opposite wall with a loud bang. His entrance was worthy of a soap opera or one of those badly cast sitcoms, but it seemed out of place in real life for some reason. She was startled, looking at him with wide eyes, as if she was expecting him to say something big, possibly unexpected, but the words that came out of his mouth turned out to be rather predictable.

"So you've finally did it, eh? But on the same day? That's a bit tasteless don't you think?" The nurse who had shared the break room with her suddenly felt the urge to leave faced with an unusually belligerent Doctor Chase.

Only after the door had closed behind her, Cameron started to speak. "It's nice of you to drop by, but would you kindly explain what you mean by 'it'?" She looked at Chase pointedly.

"Oh, don't play dense! You bloody well know what I meant. You went out with House the other week. I'm not so naïve as to assume you went your separate ways after that," he spat out accusatory.

"I don't think it is any of your business anymore." Cameron looked at him with narrowed eyes, trying to muster something aching to real spite for him, but failed miserably. She could only understand his jealousy all too well. As a matter of fact she did not only understand it, she also felt slightly guilty. Admittedly in her heart of hearts she felt more than only slightly guilty.

Despite him glaring at her like he wanted to kill her by sheer willpower, she actually managed to get out a credible apology. It meant admitting ultimate defeat, but she was willing to go to those lengths, because she knew she had hurt him. "Look, Robert, I'm sorry. Nothing happened. We had some burgers and talked. That's it. Nothing spectacular," Cameron finally admitted, running her fingers through her hair.

"Yeah. Sure." Chase rolled his eyes. She had never been a good liar. She might have picked up a few things from House, for example that sarcasm bit, she was quite good at that, but lying sure wasn't her thing.

"Honest. I swear to God. It's the truth," she pleaded with him. She got up from her chair, taking a few feeble steps towards him, which only caused him to retreat.

"Yeah, the truth…it's a nifty little thing, isn't it? I'd very much like you to be honest with me." He was leaning against the door frame, his arms crossed over his chest, trying to appear nonchalant. Just like her he had changed a lot in the last year. He had become more self-assertive and when he felt insecure he was very well able to hide it behind a façade. She supposed now was one of those moments.

She sighed. "I don't know if I can explain properly…"

"Try…You at least owe me as much."

"Yeah, you're probably right about that."

"So?" he was tapping his foot impatiently. "I haven't got all day, you know."

"This isn't easy for me. Okay?"

"Oh, please, Allison, everybody in this hospital knows that you practically worshipped the ground House walked on from the day you've met him."

"I'm afraid it's not as simple as that."

"Then go ahead and explain. I'm all ears."

"Alright…" She took a deep breath. Actually she wasn't sure how to answer Chase's question in the first place, but she felt like she was for some reason obliged to do so. The idea of him being mad at her was intolerable to her, although they weren't together anymore. She wasn't as dependent on the opinion of others as she had been when she had first started out working as a doctor, but Chase's opinion still mattered a lot to her.

"Yes," she smiled sadly, "I did have a crush on him. But that stopped last year."

"You mean when you quit?"

"Yes."

"So why go out with him now?"

"Because it's time. Because if I don't do, it I will regret it later." She looked down at her hands which she was nervously kneading as she tried to think of the right words to say. It was hard explaining her feelings to Chase of all people. Especially now, after they had broken up. The situation was already tense and uncomfortable and she could make even more tense and uncomfortable by choosing the wrong words. "Look," she finally said, "it's nice to fantasize about something, but in a way you're only lying to yourself. And what is worse you spend your time obsessing over things that probably aren't worth obsessing about. I can't keep going on like that. I need closure. One way or the other."

"If it's real, if it's not just in my head, I have to give it a try. See what happens. If it doesn't work out…well, at least I can't say I haven't tried. The point is to take that chance and not make excuses anymore. Not just because I'd be disappointed in myself if I didn't, but also because I want to move on. I don't want to keep hurting other people unintentionally."

After she had finished talking, an awkward silence settled inside that little room. Cameron tried to appear calm and unfazed by Chase's unreadable facial expression, but she couldn't help but feel immensely relieved when he finally decided to speak.

"Thank you," he finally said. It sounded surprisingly sincere.

She looked at him in shock.

"Hey, don't look at me like that." He was smiling, despite the uncomfortable situation they currently found themselves in. "What did you expect me to do? Spit fire and rip your head off for being the most honest with me you've ever been all year?" The smile slowly faded from his face. "I just wish we had this conversation a little earlier."

"Yeah, me too," Cameron smiled sadly.

Their eyes met for the briefest of moment and there was no anger between them, no unspoken accusations lingering in the air. The moment passed.

"So," Chase cleared his throat, shuffling his feet uncomfortably, "let's get to the professional part, shall we? You've asked for a consult."

She smiled. "Yes, I did. I've actually got a treat for you. This is something you don't come across every day." She grabbed a patient's file from her desk her desk and handed it to Chase. He flipped through the first couple of pages nonchalantly, then his eyes fell on the x-ray scans.

"You've got to be kidding me!" He looked at her in surprise.

"I'm definitely not kidding you," she assured him.

When her lunch break came along she decided to spend it outside, sitting on a bench in the park, enjoying the first gentle, warming rays of the spring sun. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back trying to forget about the world around her and the fact that she would have to return to the ER all too soon.

The sun warmed her skin, a gentle breeze was playing with her hair, the sound of children playing in the park, their laughter… It was a wonderful day. Then a cloud obscured the sun and the warmth disappeared.

She opened her eyes in irritation. It wasn't a cloud. There was a man standing in front of her. Despite only being able to make out a dark silhouette against the blinding light of the sun, she recognized immediately who it was. Lanky, slender, cane… House.

"Would you mind?" she asked, shielding her eyes from the sun.

"Not exactly the warm welcome I was hoping for…," he started in a mock petulant voice.

"Oh, just shut it and sit down, will you?"

He grinned and complied, placing a pizza box on the bench between them. She eyed it sceptically as if she was half-expecting a jack-in-the-box to pop out of it. Also House offering food to her, in fact offering food to anybody, was highly suspicious.

"It's only pizza. Quite harmless I assure you. Except it will make you fat, but you could afford putting on a few extra pounds if you ask me, Mrs. Almost-Nothing-There," he pointed at her chest. If she hadn't been the butt of his joke, Cameron would have almost been impressed by his talent of simultaneously forwarding an invitation and being insulting.

She ignored his comment and took a slice of pizza from the box. Out of spite she took the largest one and threw him a triumphant grin before she took the first bite. He grinned back saccharinely and took a slice as well.

"God, I forgot how good that tastes," she smiled delightedly, chewing on her pizza enthusiastically.

"Because you're normally on a diet?"

"Nope, I just don't eat pizza."

He nodded wordlessly, obviously too busy eating to enquire any further into her nutrition habits. Or maybe he just didn't find the topic that interesting.

Though the silences with him were never uncomfortable, at least not to her, she felt like making small-talk. She was in a good mood, probably thanks to the sunshine, the pleasant atmosphere of the park in good weather and House's unexpected, but rather welcome appearance.

"You'll love this. We've had this very odd case today…," Cameron started telling him in between taking greedy bites from her pizza. She hadn't been noticed that she had been that hungry. Funny.

"Hope it wasn't Lupus. In that case I wouldn't be interested. In fact I would be utterly bored."

"No." Cameron grinned smugly. "A girl dropped by this morning. She swallowed a fork. Can you imagine?! A real fork. Not one of those plastic things either."

He looked baffled, but recovered from it rather quickly. "I'm sure she has a brilliant career ahead of her in the entertainment industry, being able to swallow all kinds of unusual objects and what not." Now it was his turn to grin. And it was a rather dirty grin. "You know men like that in a girl."

"Yeah, sure they do. Just the way they like to accidentally sit on pens or other phallic objects and then come running to the ER, making up all sorts of pathetic excuses how it happened."

"Ewww. Really, Cameron, I'm trying to eat her."

"Well, you've started it."

"Doesn't matter who started it. I'm more interested in how that fork ended up 'Deep Throat' in the first place." He grinned.

She let out a groan of frustration. One day he was going to be the death of her. "She told me she ate a slice of papaya and it got stuck in her throat, so she took a fork and tried to scratch it out. Unfortunately the fork slipped out of her not too firm two-finger-hold and thanks to the swallowing reflex it ended up stuck somewhere in her oesophagus. Neat, isn't it?"

"Impressive. That has got to be the severest case of dizziness known to mankind."

"Quite."

They continued munching on their pizza in companionable silence for a while. The respective grins on their faces made the whole scene seem rather harmonious.

"Not that I'm complaining about the pizza and the unexpected pleasure of your company, but is there, I don't know, maybe any reason behind this? Was there anything you needed?" She threw him a curious sideway glance.

He looked at her innocently. "Nope, I just wanted to suck up to you. Actually I was hoping you'd put out on our next date."

A smile slowly spread on her face and a mischievous sparkle briefly flashed in her eyes. She motioned him to come closer. He readily complied, quickly disposing of the by now empty pizza box in the process. "Let me tell you a little secret," she said in a conspiratorial voice. "It's going to take a lot more than just pizza if that's what you're after."

He took his chance to sneak his arm around her shoulder. She threw him a disapproving glance, which was rather unconvincing, since she was glaring while smiling. "Oh, I see! Everything can be bought. So what's it going to be, Cameron? Oysters? Lobster? Do you want you old job back or Chase to mysteriously disappear?" He winked at her. "Anything. You just name it."

"I won't have to sign on the dotted line with my blood, will I?" She asked with a raised eyebrow.

He threw back his head and laughed a theatrical deep laugh. "No, no. You can relax. All it's going to take is your immortal soul."

"I figured as much."

"Yeah."

They fell silent again. House didn't even show the slightes inclination to remove his arm from around her shoulders and she certainly wouldn't tell him to. It felt pleasant, even cosy. Would he flinch back if she leaned her head on his shoulder? Why not give it a try? What did she have to lose? The worst could happen that he'd let out a shrill cry, jump to his feet and limp away disgustedly to burn his shirt in an open fire.

She leaned her head on his shoulder. Nothing of the sort happened. He just let it happen without even making a sarcastic comment. She smiled to herself quietly, enjoying the moment while she could, after all she was expected back in the ER in about twenty minutes.

tbc


	5. Nightmare

Once again he was inside that lecture hall. It gave off that unmistakable smell of academia: chalk, old dusty sponge, wood, stuffy air. The floor boards croaked in protest when his cane thumbed on them, then croaked again when he heavily stepped on them with his left leg. He casually took a seat on the edge of his desk, looking up to face his audience. The room was empty except for the young woman sitting in the last row. Her hair was brown, instead of the blonde he had almost gotten used to. The shoulder free red cocktail dress she wore seemed vaguely familiar, but did not fit the occasion at all.

"I expected more people to show up." he addressed her, his voice loud enough to carry across the empty room. "After all a position like this is quite sought after."

"I thought you didn't want the others to come. At least not this time around," she answered evenly. She leaned forward, resting her forearms on the table in front of her. The move must have been calculated. The predatory expression in her eyes left no doubt about that. Her new position afforded him a good view of her cleavage, which was not as generous as Cuddy's, but despite that not less enticing.

"You know that I wouldn't do that if I was real. Contrary to common believe, women don't actually enjoy men ogling their breasts."

"Really? Then I guess Cuddy is pretty masochistic. It's heard to avoid the ogling when she's practically shoving her cans in your face."

"But you like it or else you wouldn't be joking about it constantly," another voice spoke up from over his left shoulder. He turned around more out of reflex than anything else, since he already knew who that voice belonged to.

Cuddy walked up to the desk, swaying her hips sensually with every step she took in her high-heeled black pumps. She took a seat on the other edge of the desk, crossing her long legs elegantly. His eyes followed their movement, traced their length starting from her ankles, briefly registered the black skirt she wore and finally jumped directly to her cleavage to which her skin tight fuchsia red shirt inevitably drew all attention.

"I just can't help but notice them," he said, his eyes still fixed on the topic of their discussion.

"You're only a man after all," another voice jumped to his defence. "You like to look at beautiful things. Nobody can blame you for taking notice. Even I do. It's quite inevitable." He looked back to the auditorium in front of him. Thirteen was sitting in the front row, observing him interestedly, leaning back in her seat, her arms crossed over her chest.

"Oh, I get it. This is one of those dreams, isn't it?" House smiled knowingly. This was turning out even better then he imagined, though he wasn't quite sure what he had imagined in the first place. Well, certainly not this.

All three women stayed silent. In spite of a response Cameron got up from her seat and slowly started walking towards him. She stopped a few metres short of the podium, her eyes fixed on him expectantly as if she was waiting for him to say something.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"You know what I want," she answered simply.

"Yes," he replied after a moment of hesitation. The silence inside the room was awkward. It was as if the empty auditorium itself was waiting impatiently for his next words to be spoken. When he did speak them, they sounded odd, even to his own ears. "But it's not the same I want."

"Are you sure about that?" she asked with a knowing smile on her face. After all she was a figment of his imagination. She had all reason to smile smugly, since she already knew the answer to the question.

That smile, that damned little upward inclination of the corners of her mouth, caused him a great deal of discomfort. He prepared himself to make a reply, but right after he had sorted out what to say and the words were literally lying on the tip of his tongue, he woke up. He was breathing heavily as if having taken a deep sea dive. Though the details of the dream were already starting to fade from his memory, he could still remembered the beginning of his answer. Lying there in the twilight of his bedroom, he was staring up at the barely discernable ceiling, his breast rising and falling in fast intervals. He tried to push the dream back to the deepest depths of his minds from which it had obviously risen. It had very disquieting indeed. A nightmare.

His answer would have been 'no'.

What did House do whenever he encountered an emotional problem? To anyone who knew him this was a purely rhetorical question. He ran, of course. Not literally, mind you, because running with a huge chunk out of your leg missing wasn't feasible. But he avoided confrontation.

It had been quite the shock to find out that he did not merely want to have sex with Cameron, but that there were feelings involved as well. So the sex was officially off the menu because things could become much too complicated for his taste afterwards. The only logical course of action was to avoid her by all costs. He knew that it was only a matter of time until she would come to seek him out. On some level he was even curious to find out how much time would have to pass until she would show up.

He even ordered the ducklings 1.1 to immediately tell him when they saw her coming, so that maybe he could prepare an avoidance plan, but when she finally sought him out, he wasn't prepared for it in the least.

The mystery around the latest patient of the week had just been solved. It was late in the evening and he had sent his team home. He had stayed behind. A strange kind of boredom had overcome him and he felt too listless to even get out of his rather comfortable office chair. There was no incentive to go home. No difference between his work place and his apartment. Both empty. Both quite boring. Well, maybe there was a tiny difference after all. His apartment had a bedroom.

He was just about to reach for the oversized green red tennis ball that was sitting on his desk, hoping that playing around with it would alleviate the boredom he felt, when she stepped through the door of his office. She was carrying some telltale white cartons in her hands, which practically screamed Chinese take-out. If it wasn't for the delicious smell of Beef Lo Mein, he would have sent her away immediately because of his recently established no-sex policy. He wordlessly stretched out his hands, waiting for her to place one of the food cartons in it. But she did nothing of the sort. To his frustration she stopped in front of his desk. "You've been avoiding me," she said simply. It wasn't an accusation, more like an observation.

"Me?" he grimaced, pointing his finger at his chest in emphasize. "Do you really think that? Why would I do that?"

"I don't know." Cameron regarded him evenly, which unsettled him a great deal. For a moment it felt like she had the upper hand in this conversation, which was something he wasn't used to. "Maybe you suddenly got cold feet."

"Unless you've been secretly preparing our wedding - which I know you must have, you probably did it right after we first met, bought a nice little album where you put in pictures of wedding dresses and a manip of you and me as bride and groom - there is absolutely no reason for me to get cold feet," he rambled out in an impressive speed.

She looked at him blinking a few times as she gradually took in all the insults nicely wrapped in his little speech. "That's not what I meant," she said finally, sticking out her chin stubbornly.

"What did you mean?"

She let out a long drawn exhale and finally disposed of the boxes she held in her hands placing them on the desk in front of her. He made a move to grab them, but annoyingly they were just a few millimetres out of reach. She regarded him for a moment with an odd expression in her eyes. He held her gaze, looking back at her with a quizzically raised eyebrow.

She rounded the desk, her movements were slow and cautious as if not to startle him. In a way her behaviour angered him. He wasn't some shy big-eyed forest creature. _Fuck! He refused to be turned into Bambi by her!_

Her sudden proximity was for some reason unnerving him, not only that, it was even angering him to some extent. He rolled back with his office chair a bit. It was only to make room for her, he tried to convince himself.

"What the hell are you doing?" he asked non too kindly.

She placed both of her hands on the armrests of his chair, her face now at level with his. "Do you want me to leave?" Her eyes fixed on his face intently.

"Yes," he said, inwardly cringing at his own rudeness.

"No," she contradicted him softly. "House?"

"Yes," he said frowning at her in disapproval. It was a general disapproval - disapproval of the entire situation and her sudden aggressiveness.

"This is getting ridiculous."

"I thought so as well."

"Glad, you agree," she said, the corners of her mouth curling into a soft smile. From this close he could see delicate laughter lines forming around her eyes. "I'm going to kiss you now," she said simply, her words nothing more than a whisper.

He knew what courage it must have cost her to say them. She wasn't normally that direct, but maybe he had unintentionally forced her to take up the part of the aggressor. Maybe his sudden and complete withdrawal after having made his intention unmistakably clear, had caused her to assume that role.

"The hell you will," he protested, while his eyes were fixed on her lips. No pouty Angelina lips, no deep red lipstick on them, nevertheless perfectly proportioned and very inviting. He knew they could kiss very well and laugh in a way that made his insides tingle, but he wasn't ready to give in. He would not give in. If he did this was bound to end in tears. He didn't want to crash and burn. Not with her of all people. A thought occurred to him. Maybe if he told her, it would deter her. Keep her off and make her finally leave him alone.

"We both know that that's a very stupid idea. It's going to end in complete disaster."

"No, we don't know that," she heavily emphasizing the 'we'. "You're just scared shitless. You're scared it won't work, but what you're even more scared off is the possibility that it might actually work."

"I told you before, I'm not interested in crushing you, but it will happen if we do this," he tried to reason with her once again.

She sighed and took a seat at the edge of his desk, regarding him with her arms crossed over her chest. The tip of shoe was ever so slightly grazing the fabric of his trouser leg. "You talk like our relationship would be doomed from the start. It doesn't have to be."

"I'm no different than I was when we first met," he told her.

"True," she gave him a little half-smirk. "But I am. I'm not crushed that easily anymore."

"That doesn't…," he started to say, but wasn't able to finish the rest of the sentence. She moved fast. Suddenly she was in his personal space, so close he could feel her breath tickle his skin. His eyes wandered from her eyes to her lips and back again. _Don't let the moment pass. Don't let the moment pass_, his inner voice chanted over and over.

"No needle this time," she smiled at him. It actually reached her eyes and sped up his heart rhythm.

"Very reassuring," he whispered, realizing that he was fighting a losing battle. His hands that had up to his moment firmly held on to the armrests of his chair, so that he would be able to keep himself from touching her reached out to smooth back the hair from her face. For one last time he looked at her, searching for a sign of protest, but found none. He moved in and finally kissed her. It started out rather innocent. He touched his lips to hers almost tentatively. They lingered for a few seconds, then they drew back again. After years of waiting this was way beyond teasing, it was pure provocation.

The second kiss wasn't nearly as innocent as the first. When he drew her closer, his armchair tilted back, the leather emitted a soft squeak. She giggled softly as they abruptly changed position, but the sound was muffled quickly by another kiss. His stubble was scratching over her skin unpleasantly, but the sensation of his lips moving against hers drowned out every other sensation.

She had always imagined him to be a good kisser, correction, she knew him to be a good kisser. Last time it had truly been a first kiss, somewhat probing and shy. Plus, she had also wanted to get a blood sample from him. She had enjoyed it, but she hadn't been able to let herself go. Now she was having trouble not letting herself go too much. Kissing was fine, but she wasn't sure she was ready to take the next step yet. But, oh, the things he could do with his tongue, his hands touching her body in all the right places…Trying to resist him would be torture. Almost impossible. Definitely impossible.

tbc


	6. In Your Wildest Dreams

_Oh God!_ She was straddling him. Her body was pressed tightly against his, as they were kissing. When she shifted her weight, the chair alternately rocked back or forth. A nice side effect of it the way her body was rubbing against his so enticingly whenever it happened. It was good. Very good. He pulled her closer roughly, kissing her passionately. But when a sharp stabbing pain caused him to cringe, he realized it hadn't been a bad idea. Maybe having wild sex in an office chair wasn't for people who had a chunk out of their leg missing.

Nah, he was determined not to throw in the towel just yet. As they continued kissing, he reached inside the pocket of his jacket. His coordination was slightly off, so the little orange plastic container slipped from his fingers and landed on the floor with a telltale rattle.

Cameron pulled back immediately. Though looking a bit dazed and disoriented, the worry in her eyes was unmistakable. "Are you in pain?" she asked. Her voice was low and sultry, somewhat inappropriate for such a serious question, but he guessed the circumstances were to blame.

He smirked, trademark evasion tactics, and gave her butt a playful squeeze. "Nope. You haven't suddenly developed a severe case of cold feet, have you?"

Cameron tilted her head a bit to the left, regarding him through narrowed eyes, before she carefully climbed off the chair. He made a noise of disappointment, but she pretended to not have noticed. It was kind of hard having a serious conversation while you were straddling someone.

"No, no cold feet. I'm sorry to say, but it's kind of a huge turn-off when you're reaching for your Vicodin during foreplay." She picked up the plastic container from the floor and held it out to him pointedly.

There was no point lying or saying something foolish like 'It must have fallen from my pocket'. He took it from her hands somewhat resignedly. "I guess, cripples don't get to have hot office sex," he sighed before he popped one of the pills.

She dismissed his thought with a wave of her hand and a soft smile. "The chair wouldn't have been my first choice anyway. It's not exactly made for two."

"But it would have been incredibly hot," he pouted, running a hand through his already messy hair.

She sat down on the edge of his desk like she had before, regarding him with a slightly bemused expression on her face. Maybe she was taking in his dishevelled appearance like he was taking in hers and that not without a considerable amount of satisfaction.

"Maybe your office just isn't the right place for us," she said thoughtfully.

"So what is? I'm curious. The lab, the parking lot, the carpet next doors?"

She laughed. It was a pleasant sound. Something he could get used to hearing more often. "No, I was more thinking along the lines of 'my place or yours'. Tacky I know, but…"

"My place," he said quickly, interrupting her line of thought.

"What about the food? You want to leave it like that?"

"Oh, do you really think I give a crap about Chinese takeout at this point?" He said, already getting up from his chair. Before she could answer his question, which had been rhetorical in the first place, he had taken her by the hand and was quite literally dragging her after him. It was actually quite impressive how fast he could walk despite his bad leg.

"Wait," she laughed, trying to keep up with him "Why the sudden hurry?"

He threw her a look over his shoulder. "We've had four years of foreplay. Do I really have to say more?" They had reached the elevator and he was currently busy attacking the call button repeatedly with his index finger. It was like he was trying to transmit a morse code. The elevator finally arrived and he quickly ushered her inside.

She soon found herself pinned against the wall of the elevator cabin, trying to get her ragged breathing under control as he roughly kissed her neck, while his nimble fingers slipped under her blouse, caressing the small of her back. They spent the elevator ride making out. Even after the demonstrative ping of the elevator had announced they had arrived at their destination, it actually took a couple of minutes for them to realize where they were.

Cameron dimly registered they were headed towards the parking lot and by the time they were standing in front of his bike, she had come to her senses enough to question whether it was actually such a bright idea riding home on it. "House," she started, but he didn't seem to pay any attention to her, unceremoniously shoving the helmet into her hands, before he started rummaging in his pockets for the keys.

"Gregory," she tried again, deliberately using his first name to capture his attention.

"Yes, Allison," he answered. He had wanted to mock her by addressing her with her first name as well, but when he said it, the look on his face was more leaning towards bemused than sarcastic.

"Do you think it's a good idea driving in this state?"

"What state?" he asked innocently.

"Extremely horny," she answered bluntly.

He let out a raucous laugh. "Actually, now that you mention it, it's the best state to be driving in. Makes you get where you want to go much faster, plus, an endorphin high doesn't even show on a drug test." The expression in his eyes was positively devious, which, oddly enough, didn't make his reply particularly reassuring. Nevertheless, for some inane reason, she decided it was convincing enough to climb on the bike behind him.

"I have no intention of donating my kidneys to anyone just yet. So try not to get us killed, okay?" she said before she lowered the visor of the helmet, House had just handed her.

She couldn't see his face but she heard him grin when he answered. "Wouldn't dream of it. Now hold tight and prepare for some unconventional driving." He let the engine rev up a couple of times before they took of with screeching tiers.

They made to House's apartment in record time. Luckily at this nightly hour crossing paths with a patrolling police car was highly unlikely or else House would have had to pay a rather astronomic fine. When she got off the bike she felt slightly shaky. It was like getting off one of those fun rides whose velocity presses you into your seat and makes your stomach flip.

She tried to take off her helmet, fussing for a while with the clasp under her chin because her fingers were too jittery, before House showed some mercy and undid it for her. "Come on," he urged her on right after, giving her hand a slight tug to signal her he was ready to go.

They were inside his apartment in record time and no sooner had the door fallen closed behind him, they started moving towards the bedroom, leaving a trail of hastily discarded clothes in their wake.

In front of the bed they stopped, both of them looking at it silently for a second before finally facing each other. Though she was still wearing her underwear, Cameron felt utterly naked under his gaze. Maybe because she was all too well aware of his eyes roaming all over her body. But she bravely denied herself the right to fidget or do anything equally foolish. It wasn't like she was doing that for the first time for crying out loud. _No need to be nervous. It was just sex._ 'Yeah', a rather sarcastic part of her chimed in, 'just sex with the guy you've been crazy for almost four years. No need to worry. Just relax.'

Apart from the slight, but unfortunately also rising anxiety, there were several other equally confusing feelings: anticipation, the tiniest bit of smugness and curiosity. Of course, she was stealing curious glances at him from under her eyelids. Sometimes during some passing moments of weakness, _really, it hadn't been that often_, she had indulged herself and imagined what he would look like naked. This was not like she had imagined it. Well, he wasn't naked to begin with, still wearing his black boxer briefs. But more importantly, this was real. In a way it was better than her fantasies, but contrary to her fantasies this felt awkward. It was awkward because they weren't supposed to stop right in front of the bed like it was some kind of hurdle.

"I think, I might have a slight case of cold feet now," she whispered, lowering her head in order to avoid his gaze. She expected him to mock her, ridicule her or at least cover her with vicious insults. In her head the worst case scenario was playing out pre-emptively, so it wouldn't hurt when things got to that point. _He would surely kick her to the curb_. She was prepared for it, already mentally bracing herself, but nothing of the sort happened. Instead he did something completely un-House-like, which baffled her so profoundly she didn't even know what to say or do. His fingers brushed tentatively over the back of her hand before they closed around her wrist. She looked at his face in surprise. He threw her a lopsided grin, laced with something akin to shyness, before he started pulling her closer. There was no aggressiveness behind the move. It wasn't a demand, merely an invitation. She complied, feeling anxious and excited at the same time, not knowing which feeling was ultimately prevailing.

Finally, as her head came to rest against his chest, his arms wrapped around her slim midriff. She could feel his rip cage rising and falling, his heart beating out a fast rhythm, but more overwhelming than anything else was the sensation of his skin against hers. It triggered something primal in her that silenced her rational mind that was still busy worrying about all sorts of things and nothing at the same time. She kissed him passionately, almost desperately, dragging him down on the bed with her.

Now he was lying on top of her, still everything she imagined and more and nothing like she had imagined at the same time. His usual bravado, all those sarcastic remarks, the rude persona he paraded in front of everyone one a daily basis, had made her think he would be rough, which he wasn't. He was passionate, rather imaginative and also surprisingly tender. The way he was tracing soft kisses along the inside of her thigh, the tickle of his stubble against her skin...It nearly sent her hurtling over the edge. But she didn't want it to end just yet. "House," it was a mere gasp, but managed to get the message across nevertheless.

He stopped reluctantly. They knew each other well, but in that respect they knew absolutely nothing about each other. He didn't know how far he could go with her, what she wanted. He didn't want to do anything wrong, didn't want this to be the first and the last time. Involuntarily now all sorts of questions were popping up in his head, like: What did she like? How much teasing was too much? Rough or tender? Could he just be himself with her? Was she disappointed? Had she expected something else?

Then she shattered his doubts with one little sentence. "I want you," she said simply. From that moment on several things suddenly lost importance to him. Like say, for example, that he had intended not to have sex with her in the first pace because he actually had feelings for her, feelings he couldn't exactly name yet. All that could wait until later. Besides undoing the clasp of her bra required most of his attention, so he had more important things on his mind right now than rational thought. Rational thought was overrated anyway. He came to that conclusion round about that time her fingers started tugging impatiently at the waistband of his boxer briefs.

He got lost in the sensation of her skin against his, not an ounce of fabric separating them anymore. And yet he wanted to be closer to her. This state of in-between, of not being quite there yet, was torturous but also exquisite. It could be turned into a game, a game of dominance and teasing. But it would have required a certain amount of self-control, which he didn't quite have at the moment. No one could expect that of him, especially when he could feel she wanted him as much as he wanted her. The way her body arched against his, her breasts were pressing against his chest when she kissed him was an open invitation, an open invitation he couldn't and didn't want to refuse any longer.

So for once in a very long time he allowed himself to lose all control. He never did that. Usually he squished emotions like that, the dangerous ones that betrayed a little of his weakness, underneath his thumb like a pesky fly. Everything that made him vulnerable, he usually tried to hide behind a brash, sarcastic façade of detachment. It was hard pretending to be nonchalant now. In fact rather stupid too, come to think of it.

Oh, this was wonderful, complete and utter sensory overload. No use denying it. Yes, he enjoyed this. Yes, she felt good, oh, so good, moaning, writhing, her nails digging into his back as another wave of passion rolled over her. He loved to watch her, loved to see the expression on her face when he'd just hit the right spot, just guessed the right thing to whisper into her ear. Watching her was a big turn on. It challenged him, excited him, almost sent him over the edge. Almost…almost…almost. "House," she moaned. Then his thoughts dissolved into incoherence and he was all feeling. Pleasure, no, ecstasy, comfort, sweet surrender, feeling safe like wrapped up in a blanket, yet falling so fast, but never caring for anything but the immense thrill of it.

tbc


	7. Freudian Dilemma

Cameron was lying there, staring at the ceiling. He was sleeping, sleeping peacefully. His even breathing should have lulled her to sleep as well, but she was too busy feeling awkward to allow herself to doze off. So she was just lying there, allowing herself to get lost in all sorts of strange thoughts.

She thought back to her teenage days and her first boyfriend, how being with him had been awkward as well. Somewhere along the line she had forgotten how it felt to be in love. Back then love had been that great mysterious thing everybody talked about, but knew nothing of. Then she had fallen in love and she understood why people seemed to be so obsessed with it. It was great. Maybe even the best thing that had ever happened to her. Later, when her boyfriend broke up with her, it turned out maybe it was not only the best thing that could have happened to her but also the worst. Both at the same time simultaneously, which was confusing and frustrating like everything else that surrounded the process of growing up.

After that the overzealous enthusiasm, the drama and angst that came with being in love when you were a teenager, had gradually lessened. Dan, her husband, had been her first "adult" relationship. What she had felt for him was something that had matured slowly. Deep liking had grown into friendship, friendship had grown into love. They had always been good at the undertones. They words 'I love you' didn't have to be spoken very often. She knew because of the way he looked at her. The quiet adoration she could see in his eyes.

After he was gone, she had cried for weeks. Literally. She had not been able to control herself. Every time she thought she had overcome her grief, every time she thought she would manage to make it through the day without breaking down, she was proven wrong. The casual mention of his name during dinner with friends at a restaurant reduced her to tears. Coming home to an empty apartment was intolerable. It made her stare out of the window for hours feeling hollow and utterly alone. Getting up everyday always was an effort. Eventually, with time passing, she had gradually improved. She had relearned how to laugh, how to live. But had she learned how to love again? What was love anyway? How did it feel? What she felt now, was that love? Had she loved Chase? Why did she feel so anxious now?

What she felt for House was different. Different in a sense that she could not place it. A part of her wanted to fix him. There was no denying it. Sometimes looking at him she felt the urge to hug him and whisper in his ear that she would take care of him, that everything was going to be alright. She turned her head to look at him. His back was turned to her. She could not see much in the dark: his lanky form stretched out on the bed, his ruffled hair sticking up in all directions. She smiled. Then that smile was fading slowly.

She was well aware what she was once again overanalyzing everything. It was the one thing she hated most about herself, so how could she not be aware of it? Her annoyance with herself was growing even bigger when she realized that once again she couldn't stop doing it. She wanted to act laid-back, be mature about the whole thing, but that was going to be hard if she continued blowing this out of proportion.

They had slept with each other which had been - she let out a long breath, almost like a sigh - it had been so much better than she had imagined, which was a cheesy thing to think, much less to say. She would never say it out loud. Never!

But what now? Okay, he was sleeping, which was kind of unfair, because he didn't have to deal with this situation. Alright, she was admittedly slightly miffed because had he been awake, they would have been able to settle this like adults. She could have asked 'Do you want me to stay?' and he could have answered with a fairly unequivocal 'yes' or 'no', which would have spared her the trouble of making that particular decision on her own. Right now she was feeling so out of place she wasn't even sure whether she would have wanted him to say 'yes'.

There was no telling how he would react to waking up to her in the morning. Her guess was he wasn't a morning person, so the chances of hugs and kisses and breakfast in bed were about as big as Cuddy wearing a loose-fitting turtleneck. So practically zero. Not that she would have wanted something like that anyway. The breakfast not the turtleneck.

She moved on to other more gruesome thoughts. Maybe the fact that this caused her so much trouble meant that they should have waited. Wasn't there supposed to be some sort of natural transition between what they had before and whatever they had now? This question, in turn, made her wonder where last nights...activities left them standing now. She wasn't sure she wanted to know. Perhaps this was the crux of her whole dilemma - not knowing and being insecure.

The situation was completely out of her control and she wasn't sure she trusted him enough to expose herself and her emotions to him that way. She didn't want to be depended on his opinion. She liked to believe that she had outgrown this phase, but maybe the truth was that she wasn't that strong and independent after all. In her heart of hearts she didn't want to leave now that she had arrived somewhere with him, but maybe it would be for the better if she did. It was the coward's way out, but on the other hand cowards didn't get their hearts broken that easily.

Having finally come to some sort of conclusion, although it was very far from satisfactory, she silently slipped out of bed. Her feet were softly padding over the cold wooden floor of the bedroom, as she went looking for her clothes. It was difficult to make them out in the semidarkness, but she hesitated to switch on the light. It would doubtlessly wake him up and she preferred to avoid that. Already clothed in her underwear and with the rest of her stuff on her arm, she was sneaking towards the door. When she heard the rustle of sheets, she froze momentarily, only to dismiss it seconds later, thinking he had only turned in his sleep. Seconds later she realized her mistake.

His voice, which sounded particularly gravely from sleep and was miraculously devoid of its usual sardonic edge, made her jump. "Cameron?" He asked sleepily.

"Yes," she said hesitantly, turning around so she was facing him, more out of habit than anything else, because in the greyish twilight of the room she couldn't even make out his face.

"Where the fuck are you going?"

"Bathroom?" she supplied.

"Really?" he paused. "Judging by your silhouette, you're either nine months pregnant or you're having your clothes on your arm. Since I've just seen you naked and there was no enormous pot belly to be seen, I'd say it's the second."

"Couldn't you have picked any other moment to wake up?" She said snappishly. Knowing him he was probably grinning now, which irritated her even further.

He appeared to be totally unfazed by her words. In fact he even ignored them completely. "So any good excuses? Did you suddenly remember you needed to fold your laundry or that you left the light one?"

Now what was she to answer to this? "Erm…no. I just thought…I…you," she started to explain, but she always stumbled over her own words in the end. She was trying too hard to come up with a clever retort, so that she ended up muttering incoherent excuses.

"Really, Cameron! From confident to stuttering? Not really an improvement."

"House," she warned, unconsciously taking a step closer to the bed and away from the door.

A pause ensued. It was loaded with tension, so as pauses go it was rather unpleasant, but unfortunately necessary. He needed a little time to think. The way the situation presented itself there were only two options. He could let her go, which would cause trouble later. Surely she would start nagging at him later for letting her go and he wasn't in the mood for that. So he decided for the second option.

"Oh, will you just shut it and come back to bed? I'm tired. We can solve your Carry-esque drama tomorrow morning," he said finally.

Cameron smiled in the dark. So this was the House version of 'Please, stay overnight.' "Sure," she said finally. Her clothes fell to her feet. She graciously stepped over them.

"You know, a man with a smaller ego would have felt rejected. Be thankful I'm so forgiving," he held open the covers for her and she slipped under them, lying down next to him. It didn't feel that awkward anymore.

"Well, fortunately your ego's about the size of a small country, so I'm sure no harm has been done." She tugged at the covers determinedly. "By the way, could you please stop hogging up the covers?"

"Simple solution. You come closer. We share. End of story," he explained with a tone of annoyance as if he was talking to a six-year-old.

She complied silently, not because he had been able shut her up with his oh so sharp wit, far from it, but because lying closer to him was actually something she wanted. It improved the situation a great deal. Now she didn't have to device anymore clever schemes that would have allowed her getting closer to him, like the famous yawn and stretch manoeuvre, also applied by countless predominantly male teenagers in cinemas all of the world. Fortunately she had been spared having to sink to that level of patheticness, for which she was quite thankful.

"House?" she asked after a while.

Surprisingly he wasn't asleep yet. "Yes?"

"Are you asleep?"

"No," she could hear the added eye roll in the tone of his voice.

"I…I didn't want to leave…I just thought you didn't want me to stay." For some reason she felt the need to explain herself to him, even though she knew he probably wasn't interested in what she had to say.

"Cameron," he turned around to face her.

"Yes?" she asked hopefully.

"Shut up," he said, smirking at her in the dark. She could clearly make out his face now. Her eyes had grown accustomed to the greyish twilight of the room.

"But…"

"No, really. Shut up!" House repeated. She was about to comment on his rudeness, but the words died on her lips when he pulled her closer. To her own surprise she soon found herself cuddled up to his side, her head on his shoulder, feeling rather cosy.

"Why can you women never rest your head on a pillow like normal people? You're not happy until you can cut off someone's circulation. I swear if you fall asleep now, I'm going to be so pissed," he complained, but did nothing to change their sleeping arrangements. His voice was pleasantly low and the words directly whispered in her ear. Strangely the sarcasm was missing this time, but that was probably only because he was so tired.

tbc


	8. Epiphany Is A Name For A Blond Girl

She is standing in the doorframe watching him, not sure she wants to enter, because if she does everything's going to change. Cause and effect, just like that French guy in the Matrix movie said - a funny thing to think of in a situation like that. But maybe not at all, because any thought is better right now than acknowledging reality. It means perceiving things all too clearly, like that unpleasant smell of disinfectant and sickness hovering in the air, like that bleeping of the heart rate monitor or that dripping of the IV-running into his arm. So if she steps into that room now, everything will become a little bit more real. Details will imprint in her mind which she really doesn't want lingering there.

There's Cuddy sitting on the chair next to his bed, holding his hand. She is not even turning around to acknowledge her presence. Seeing her there should make her feel something. Anything. She tries to remember what the feeling is she's supposed to feel right now. Jealousy? Maybe. But after a day like this she feels too hollow for such a potent emotion.

A strand of hair falls from her gradually dissolving ponytail and tickles her skin. She smoothes it back impatiently, almost annoyed. After all that she's been through today, even minor things manage to irritate her. She's seen someone die, someone she knew. Amber wasn't even a friend. In her heart of hearts she knows that they would have never become friends, but nevertheless…nevertheless what? She feels relieved it hasn't been her sitting on that bus with House, ending up dead because of him. She feels guilty because she feels relieved, angry because she can still hear his arrogant voice echoing in her ears even hours after she checked up on her voice mail and sad because a human being died - basically too many things at once.

She wants to be able to hate him. As a matter of fact there would have been many occasions over the past couple of years that should have inspired a deep and heartfelt hatred for him, but surprisingly it never actually set in. Not even now. Resignedly she enters the room. Cuddy turns around, finally noticing her presence. She starts to say something, maybe apologize but Cameron is not interested in apologies and too exhausted for small talk so she just shakes her head. After that her eyes settle on House again, taking in his pale skin, the circles under his eyes, the way he looks so disquietingly fragile lying in that hospital bed. The soft pressure of Cuddy's hand on her shoulder brings her back to reality.

"You sit with him," she tells her. "I just didn't want him to be alone when he's like that…" On the verge of death she doesn't say. Doctors aren't necessarily known for their penchant for melodrama. Surprisingly there is no reproach in her voice. She knows where Cameron has been before, that she's been with Wilson. Cameron remembers the odd feeling of that conversation or better of that non-conversation that was all unfinished sentences and unpleasant pauses. In the end she settled on offering Wilson an awkward hug. There would have been nothing she could have said to make it better anyways.

"Thank you," Cameron says finally, trying to smile at the other woman but failing miserably.

"You must be exhausted," Cuddy says gently, taking in the younger doctor's tired eyes and her slumped shoulders.

"I don't know," she answers truthfully. "I think I'm just going to sit there with him for awhile."

"You do that." She gives her one last awkward smile that tries for reassuring before she leaves the room.

Cameron suddenly feels terrified being alone with him in that sterile hospital room. It's strange that she should feel like that. Being a doctor, she should be used to hospital rooms and bleeping heart monitor, but she isn't. How could she bee prepared for a situation like that? To think that only a couple of days ago she fussed about something minor like staying overnight at his flat, which now seems utterly ridiculous.

She sits down on the chair next to his bed. It lets out an obnoxious screeching noise when she moves it over the linoleum floor, positioning it closer to his bed. The sound should wake him up. It should wake up the dead, but it doesn't. She wants to reach for his hand but stops mid movement, her hand hovering motionlessly over his. Then she thinks better of it and pulls back.

It's still too early for touching. She hasn't forgiven him yet. She was lucky she had to pull a double shift that night when he tried to call her and only ended up talking to her voice mail instead.

"Why won't you answer that damned phone?" he drawled, behind him the background noise of some bar was audible. "Geeze, let me tell you, you're not much of a girlfriend. That's not the way it's supposed to be working. I get drunk, you come and pick me up. But you have to be all dull and pull a double shift. I'm very disappointed in you. Bad Cameron." Hopefully not the last words he'd ever say to her.

* * *

"Why is this bus white?" is the first thing he's thinking. When his eyes fall on Amber, Amber his best friend's dead girlfriend, who is looking all beautiful and serene, another thought hits him. Am I dead? Strangely this question doesn't make him panic. Though he's calmly sitting next to her, he can't stop himself from shooting her astonished sideway glances. He's surprised she's there. He's surprised the afterlife is a white bus. But he's not surprised to be there.

He asks the inevitable questions. She shoots him enigmatic looks, smiling a bit because quite obviously she knows more than him, which makes him the butt of the joke. So he's not dead yet. Not sure how he is supposed to feel about that particular information. But it sort of makes sense, because the pain in his leg is gone.

What do old people say again? A good thing the pain's there, lets you know you're still alive.

So not dead yet… Rather a good state to be in painwise. Not a good state to be in when it comes to the guilt. Because he does feel guilty. How could he not?

One look at her and you can't help but feel guilty. Beautiful, young, cutthroat, _sorry, make that ambitious_, certainly a lot of potential there. Potential which he's destroyed. He tries to apologize the best way he can, talks about how life is random and unfair, basically about things he can't change. It's never bothered him much that life is cruel until now, but sitting here with her, it's starting to.

She calls him on it. "Self-pity isn't like you." Simple, clear to the point. A cut executed with almost surgical precision. Like he was saying before – potential.

But if this mess wasn't reason enough for self-pity, what was? He killed his best friend's girlfriend, nearly got Cameron killed as well. You always hurt the ones you love. But in the end everything you do has consequences.

"They are going to hate me," he says. Part of him recoils, fearing her answer, which she delivers without any scruples or second thoughts.

As a matter of fact she does look sort of relaxed, when she answers. "You kind of deserve that."

He's scared to death by her reply, because however much he tries to deny it, however much he tries to tell himself day by day that he's an island, that he doesn't need anyone, he knows deep down that he does. It's people like Wilson and Cameron that keep him going. If it weren't for them, he would have long since ended up on that white bus of doom. But what makes her reply even scarier is the fact that even before she said those words he had thought them.

He's close to tears, blinking and blinking so they will go away. "They're my family. He's my best friend. She's…Well, she's…"

"I know," is her calm and infuriating reply. For a while she's dangling her naked feet almost gleefully over the clinical white floor, then she turns and asks "What now?"

"I stay here with you," he answers too afraid of facing the real world, where there are pain and broken friendships that may never be mended again. Relationships with a deep chink, he doesn't know how to fix.

She shakes her head. "Get off the bus."

"I can't," his words are nothing more than a whisper. How is he supposed to face Cameron or Wilson after everything that has happened? He's feeling so fucking guilty. He's got enough guilt for a small country. Maybe even an entire continent.

Of course, she has to know the reason. She has to wring it out of him.

"Because it doesn't hurt here." What he doesn't say is that he knows that it will hurt a lot once he goes back. Not only physically, but emotionally as well. For once in his life he's actually fearing pain. He's not ready to face the consequences of his actions, whatever they might be. He usually doesn't deal with them, so he has no idea at all how to handle them.

He finally cracks, finally makes himself vulnerable and confesses. "I don't want to be in pain. I don't want to be miserable." He has trouble getting out the next words. "And I don't want them to hate me." As he says them he realizes that they are true. They hit him like a ton of pricks, like punches to the stomach and make him want to catch his breath.

She's Cutthroat Bitch right to the end. "Well…you can't always get what you want." That sentence is so neat, it could have been something he said. Maybe he did even say it once upon a time. He looks at her questioningly. Is she really that cruel? She is. She's not going to cuddle him. That's not part of her personality. She's all bluntness and brutal honesty. Just like him. Just what he deserves. Measure for measure.

She even has the audacity to smile a little at him. So what else is he supposed to do but get up and walk away before this gets anymore pathetic?

And then he's back. He knows immediately because the pain has returned as well. He wakes up to Wilson standing in the doorway and Cameron sleeping cuddled up on the chair next to his bed. It should be consoling that they're there, but it's not. It immediately puts him under a considerable amount of pressure to fix this deadlock. He wants to say something to Wilson, but there are no words to mend this. Since nobody has come up yet with a patented excuse that would nicely paraphrase the rather crude words 'Sorry, I killed your girlfriend' and guarantee instant forgiveness, he is doomed to stay silent and just endure Wilson's accusing looks. Then he turns and slowly walks away and makes House wish he had stayed on that bus. Or maybe this is exactly what he deserves, just like Amber said.

tbc


	9. You Can't Always Get What You Want

She regards his profile for awhile before she decides to speak up. He's staring ahead, his eyes fixed on the spot where Wilson's stood just a minute ago.

House looks sad and forlorn. Doubtlessly she's just scratching the surface with that observation. He's like Pandora's Box and she doesn't dare to pry under the lid. She can't even begin to imagine what's going on inside his head and for once she doesn't want to. A lot has happened. Normally he doesn't inflict lasting damage. It's like he takes care not to do so, but unfortunately he hasn't succeeded this time around. Amber is dead. Wilson's…well, crushed? Devastated? No, she doesn't want to trade places with House...or Wilson. But in spite of everything that has happened she can't help but feel sorry for him, so her voice manages to sound concerned even when she just says "Hey".

He turns his head to look at her. The exhaustion's showing on his face, but primarily in his eyes. She might not be able to understand the reason behind most of the things he does, but she's always been good at reading him just by looking at him. If it weren't for the lies and contradictions pouring from his mouth, she would have figured out how he ticked much earlier. He's tired, afraid and insecure. She's never seen him like that.

"Hey," he answers with a rough voice.

For a while neither of them speaks. He looks like he wants to say something else, but as long as he doesn't open his mouth she's not ready to even consider forgiving him. She breaks eye contact and gets up from her chair, stretching her legs. Now she's standing there, pondering whether she should stay or run from the room as fast and as far as her feet carry her. Funny, how she always manages to get herself into these awkward situations.

"I'm sorry," he says and makes the situation even more awkward because she doesn't know what to answer him. She still loves him and a part of her wants to immediately forgive him, but it's the smaller one, because mostly she's just exhausted and angry. He's put her through a lot the last couple of days. She's simultaneously impressed and repelled by the fact that he would go as far as risking his own life in order to save someone else. She's impressed because she wants to believe that for once he's done something selfless, but then reality catches up with her and she realizes that probably all he wanted to do in the first place was solve another one of his stupid puzzles. So all she says is, "I know."

He sighs. Apparently this isn't the answer he expected. As much as she would like to help him out there she can't. Not this time. Whether he's actually sorry or not is immaterial. Mere words can't raise the dead. He's made a mistake. Many mistakes, as a matter of fact, which have led to a brilliant firework of absolute and utter fuck-upery of unexpected dimensions. Now she needs time and a little bit more than just words. She would like to be able to forgive him, but she can't yet. Maybe not ever. However, she can't walk away from him either. Something's keeping her there with him. She loves him.

"Seems like I screwed up completely this time."

She doesn't answer, just lowers her head and wishes she could say something along the lines of "No, you haven't screwed up. Everything will be alright again", but the words just won't come. She has learned that she's quite a good liar, but she is no one who lies because she enjoys it. She only tells white lies, the ones which are necessary to prevent further harm. But what good would a lie do under those circumstances? Because she has nothing to say, she stays silent and evades his gaze.

"Great," he mutters dejectedly, wishing he had never woken up. Why does everything have to be so hard? If she isn't ready to forgive him, who will be? After all she is Cameron…Little-Miss-Goody-Two-Shoes, the one he's always scolded for being too forgiving, too soft, too gentle, too everything to once upon a time make a proper doctor. There is only one possible conclusion. The realisation is really a bitter pill, because despite of everything he's said to her in the past couple of years, he's never actually wanted things to end like this.

For once he's too tired to pretend like he doesn't care, so he just says what's on his mind. "Wow, you must really hate me."

She looks at him in surprise. Her answer is more hesitant than he would like it to be. "Actually, I don't."

"Huh? Sorry, did I miss something?" he looks at her confusedly.

"No, you didn't."

"So you don't hate me, but we're not okay. Is that about it?"

"Yes."

"Okay. Fine. But where does that leave us?"

She shrugs her shoulders. "I don't know."

"Well, that sucks," he grumbles ill-humouredly.

"Yeah, kind of," she says with a shy smile that is supposed to conceal her nervousness. Needless to say that in a situation like this it quite predictably fails to do so.

"But you're still here. Means you worried."

"I don't know what it means." She lowers her head dejectedly. This talk is exhausting her in more than just one way. She's been on her feet for at least 24 hours, she hasn't eaten and she's still waiting for that moment of peace and quietude that will help her catch her breath and regroup. Actually, she's pretty amazed at the fact she's able to have a coherent conversation at all.

"I'm tired," she adds after a while. His eyes widen. He has obviously gotten her wrong. "Not of you. Just plain normal tired," Cameron laughs nervously. "Aren't you too?"

"Yeah, I guess," he says slowly, still regarding her taxingly.

"Why don't you have a rest? It'll make you feel better," she suggests and he silently nods in agreement.

"Right, I'll better be going then…" She quickly gets up and is almost out the door before he gets the chance to ask one last question before she goes.

"But you're going to come back, right?" He sounds a bit timid.

She looks at him silently for a while, trying to make up her mind. The answer comes to her disconcertingly quickly. She hasn't got it in her to say 'no' to him. He's pale, he looks exhausted, maybe even a bit scared. He needs her and her stupid soft heart that won't allow her to walk away from him like she should.

Her shoulders slump in defeat when she finally answers,"Yes, I'll be back tomorrow."

* * *

"So here I am. I am back," Cameron says nervously as she enters the room. Only a couple of steps into the room, she can already see he's looking much better than yesterday.

"Yes, I can see that," he smiles, almost managing to look a bit complacent. But he doesn't quite succeed. Of course his act of nonchalance is rather transparent to her, given that he's almost done a double take at the sight of her standing in the doorframe.

"So you just wanted to quickly zoom in during your break," he says, taking in her pink ER scrubs and her hair, swept up in a messy bun. "Am I just a quick detour on the way to the cafeteria then?"

"Something like that," she mumbles. "I dropped by your office. Figured you wanted to have this." She throws his playstation on the covers which she's been hiding behind her back up until now.

He briefly looks at the electronic device lying there in front of him, tempting him with its plastic screen glinting in the neon light, then looks at her. He's unsure what to do next, or more precisely what to say next. He decides on the tradition response to someone doing you a favour. "Thank you," House answers after a moment of hesitation.

"Oh, don't mention it. If you need anything else…," she lets the rest of the sentence dangle in the air, like a carrot in front of a donkey.

"Yeah, actually I do," he says after a while, his voice sounding more gravely than usual.

"If you want me to get you out of here, I'm sorry but I'll have to disappoint you. You know procedures as well as I do. They'll have to keep you for at least one more week. In case of an aneurysm the ICU apparently is the place to be, you know," she chuckles weakly at her one joke, then suddenly feels the need to apologize for it. These days she's not so sure anymore her humour is meant for someone else's ears except hers. "I'm sorry. What is it you needed?"

He hesitates, looks away, regards his reflection in the windowpane – a pale-looking man in his mid-forties alone in a big hospital room. He looks back at her – young, gorgeous, slightly stressed, slightly damaged and subtlety irritated. Then he decides to finally speak. "I need you to…Well, I need you to…" He clears his throat, swears, starts again. "I need you to forgive me."

"Greg…" She doesn't call him by his given name very often, most of the times the situation is serious when she does. And the way she says it has him worried too. It's that voice people use when they break up with someone or chastise a puppy that has just christened the brand new carpet with its pee - a little regretful, also somewhat complaisant and tiny bit hypocritical.

"Oh, that's what you were going to say!" He waves of her unspoken words with a casual gesture of his hand. It's not as casual as he would like, because he has to take care not to accidentally rip out any tubes.

"You don't know what I was going to say." She looks irritated.

"Alright, go ahead then. Say it." He would very much like to be able to cross his arms over his chest, but he can't because of the aforementioned tube problem.

She roles her eyes but despite her annoyance with him, she still manages to say what she originally intended to. "Forgiveness has to be earned."

He's stunned, but clear-headed enough to quickly ask one vital question. "And how do I do that?"

"I don't know."

"Is it possible at all?"

Cameron hesitates for what seems to be an eternity. "There's a chance."

"That's enough for me," he calls after her as she leaves the room as quickly as she came.

TBC


	10. Good Intentions

It is Thursday. She's pulled another one of those exhausting double shifts and managed to survive. It's been raining all day. She's walking down the corridor and that rather briskly. Her hair's wet and her clothes are feeling uncomfortably clammy. She quickly steps inside her apartment, closes the door and leans against it. She exhales slowly, closing her eyes. This is her safe place, home. No need to be perfect and infallible anymore. _What a remarkable relief!_

She kicks off her shoes, takes off her jacket and puts it on the hanger next to the door. Just as usual, she takes out her cellular and switches it from mute to normal. It's all part of a daily routine she has already repeated countless time. But this is sort of unexpected. She frowns. Two missed calls, the display proudly proclaims. Normally nobody calls her during the day. Her family and friends all know her working hours. She looks at the number. The call was made from somewhere in Princeton. The number, however, doesn't look familiar, so she decides to check her voice mail.

"You have two missed calls. The first one on 3:42 p.m." First she can only hear the sound of soft breathing over the line, but before she can start worrying that she's getting phone calls from some pervert, a shrill female voice dissolves the mystery in a very obtrusive way. "Time for your medicine, sunshine!" the woman, obviously a nurse, croons enthusiastically. A muttered "shit" in a male voice that sounds decidedly familiar follows. After that the line goes dead. Cameron smiles amusedly. "Next call. 4:15 p.m.," the voice mail informs her. So about half an hour later.

The second call is slightly less entertaining, though. It's just House saying 'hello', but there's something in the tone of his voice that makes her call him back immediately. He sounds lonely and as if he desperately needs someone to talk to. She feels the beginnings of a guilty conscience stirring. She's left him there alone. She didn't check up on him today. She's dialling his number before she even has the time to remind herself that she's supposed to be angry at him. It's an impulsive decision, so she doesn't bother checking the time. At least not until the phone has already started ringing. It's 11 p.m. Hopefully he's not asleep yet.

He isn't. "Hey," the nervous smile is audible in her voice.

"Hey," he answers. She can't tell whether he's happy to hear her or not, but knowing him, that's exactly the desired effect.

"How are you?" she asks, switching on the light in her living room. The soft carpet is feeling rather nice underneath her feet naked. She lets herself fall back on the sofa with a sigh.

He hesitates. "Bored."

"No soaps on?"

He sighs. "There's only so much TV I can take without going crazy…" He's comparatively easy on the sarcasm. Now she's even more concerned.

"Are you okay? Do you want me to come over?"

"No, I'm okay, really. Everything's fine."

"Alright, I'll be with you in fifteen minutes." He doesn't protest.

She drives through the heavy rain for a second time today, cursing underneath her breath. But she's cursing because she's forced to drive slower thanks to the downpour, not because she has to expose herself to the bad weather for a second time in order to see House. Then, having finally arrived at the parking lot, she sprints up to the front door of the hospital, not caring whether she gets drenched in mere seconds or not. She leaves water droplets in her wake as she crosses the foyer with a few energetic strides.

Seconds later she's standing inside his room, ever so slightly out of breath and probably looking like a drained cat. He looks up from some glossy magazine he's reading. It's Cosmo, she notices by and by.

"Wow, you were awfully fast! Didn't feel like fifteen minutes. Actually more like ten." He looks at his wristwatch, sitting on the bedside table next to him. "Yup, more or less exactly ten minutes."

She doesn't let his comment get to her. What she notices though, is that he's been keeping track of the time and that rather accurately.

"Is it raining outside?" He wrinkles his nose in disapproval as he takes in her drenched clothes and her wet hair.

"No, I was heading for the win of this year's Miss Wet T-Shirt when you called." She's not able to bite back on a sarcastic comment this time. He's been too good a teacher.

"And you wait to do that until I'm hospitalized! That's rather cruel, don't you think?"

"Ha, ha! Funny!" She shoots him a dirty look. He smiles triumphantly.

"Look, I'm going to head down to the locker room for a second. I'll be back in no time."

"Sure, it's not like I can't keep myself entertained." He pointedly reaches for the Cosmo again, faking indifference. She knows it's fake, because of the phone call from before. The despair in his voice she's heard back then, that was very real. She keeps looking over her shoulder while she's walking away from him. The scene looks deceptively normal. House reading, looking mildly disinterested in the women's magazine in his hands.

A few minutes later she's back, wearing her usual work clothes, her hair still damp, but as dry as she can get it with a towel.

"So to what do I owe the honour of your visit?" he asks brashly, folding his arms over his chest. The tubes, now gone, he's finally able to do that. A small triumph.

"I was concerned." She admits truthfully. Saying that, Cameron realizes she really means it. She was…is concerned, more concerned than she should be. After all she has sworn herself not to cave so easily this time, but he needs her now. This is the lowest she has ever seen him. He's alone, no friends. Just him and his guilty conscience, assuming that has one, locked up together in a room.

"Concerned?" He seems surprised.

"Yes, concerned," she confirms, sitting down in the chair next to his bed. From the corner of her eyes she notices his reading glasses lying on top of a medical journal on his bedside table.

"Cuddy?" she just asks.

"Yeah, awfully nice of her to drop by when there was nobody else around to come and visit, don't you think? She even fluffed my pillow for me." He waggles his eyebrows at her suggestively.

The off-handed comment about "nobody else visiting" didn't escape her notice. "I'm sorry," Cameron says in all sincerity.

"About what?"

"I'm sorry that I didn't come to see you today. I should have."

"I don't see a reason why you should have bothered…"

She interrupts him. "I don't want you to be alone."

"That's really nice of you. But I've got my TV and this nice little fellow here to keep me company," he picks up his play station from the bedside table and waves it at her pointedly. "Everything's fine. Situation under control. Peachy even."

She looks at him and frowns. He's not sure what that is supposed to mean, but he's doubtlessly going to find out in a couple of seconds. "Maybe I didn't make myself clear the first time. I don't want you to have to go through this alone."

"I'm fine," he reassures her, starting to sound a little repetitious.

"Okay," she sighs. Of course he wouldn't admit there was something wrong. What was she thinking? But having been exposed to his personality for four years, she's even developed a strategy to deal with that. "So if you're fine, you surely won't mind me keeping you company for a while, huh? I didn't drive through this rain for nothing!"

"So what did you have in mind?"

"I hear _Dancing With The Stars_ is on tonight. We could scavenge the snack machine on the second floor and talk about those desperate-to-be-on-TV contestants. You in?"

He takes awhile before he agrees begrudgingly. He's already less reluctant when she asks him what she's supposed to get him from the vending machine and moments later even bordering on enthusiastic, when he's reciting a rather long list of chocolate bars off the top of his head. The grateful look he throws her when she returns, her arms laden with sweets, is hard to mistake, as is his sadistic delight in making sarcastic comments about the contestants of the show. It turns out to be a rather pleasant evening. Perhaps the most pleasant they've ever had together.

That's why she sighs regretfully when she looks at her watch and notices it is time to leave. She tells him.

"Already?"

"Yeah." She makes a face. "I have to work tomorrow. A pity, though. I had a lot of fun."

"Me too," he admits almost shyly.

She smiles at him. "That's good. That was what I've been aiming at all along."

"Well, mission achieved then. Off you go, before that Nazi-nurse with those upper arms the size of a trunk starts feeding you pills as well. Doesn't take 'no' for an answer, that one. "

"Yeah, you're probably right." She yawns and rubs her eyes.

"And Cameron…"

"Yes?"

"Thanks."

"No problem. See you tomorrow."

tbc


	11. The Duck Has Landed

Actually, he should be happy about the news that he's going to be released today but oddly enough he isn't. Ever since he's woken up he's been feeling sort of hollow. Like there is some vital part of him missing. He's like the Tin Man in the Wizard of Oz. Doubtlessly if he banged his hand against his chest there would be that depressing 'clonk clonk' noise.

Strangely enough those maudlin thoughts weren't there yesterday evening when she was with him. Realizing that is utterly terrifying. He doesn't want to admit that he needs her that much. When Cuddy is there with him it is nothing like that. Sure, her chatter distracts him. It's pleasant. He's glad she's there. But that's about it. He can't put that difference between her and Cameron into words. It's just some kind of feeling he can't describe. He wouldn't be comfortable describing it anyways, it's not rational.

Cameron has something about her, always had, that makes him feel…Makes him feel full stop. But not only that, her presence does something to him. Sometimes it makes him feel calmer, more confident. Not like he's usually lacking confidence. But she gives him a boost in the most positive sense of the word. He didn't even notice at first, because he doesn't usually pay attentions to emotions, they are generally a nuisance and not really worth the trouble they cause, but the last days it has become clearer and clearer that he needs her. Whatever that's got to mean…

He would very much like to talk to Wilson about that. Wilson would know what to do. You could always rely on Wilson to figure out the uncomfortable emotional stuff. Do the dirty work. Leave it up to him to spit out some cheesy advice about how to patch things up with a girl or how to convincingly act like a decent human being around other people in general. Unfortunately, he isn't a decent human being, not by the judge of everyone around him. He's flying solo now and he's got no idea how to patch things up with Cameron. But he's going to try.

She's in the break room filling out some paperwork, when she hears a soft rapping at the door. Already annoyed by the fact that she has been doing nothing but starring at boring forms for hours, she pushes back her chair from the table, gets up with a sigh and yanks open the door. The sight that greets her from the other side of it is a rather unexpected one: a slightly stunned Asian delivery boy who is holding out some white food cartons to her almost anxiously.

"Hello." She looks at the young man who can't be older than twenty in surprise. "Are you lost? Can I help you?"

"Delivery for Miss Allison Cameron," the man says.

"That's me, but I haven't ordered anything."

"Delivery for Miss Allison Cameron," the man now insists, his tone already indicating a slight degree of irritation.

She rolls her eyes. "Alright, how much is it?"

"30 dollars," he holds out his other hand pointedly, waiting for her to place the dollar bills in it.

"30 dollars?!" she asks incredulously.

"Yes, 30 dollars. We're not just any restaurant in town. We're the _Fortune Palace_. Two stars." Two he indicates with his fingers as if he thinks she's a bit dense.

"Yeah, great! But apparently there has been a mix-up." Though trying hard not to get irritated, she's slowly starting to lose her composure.

He points at the name tag conveniently pinned to the front of her scrubs. "Doctor Allison Cameron. No mistake."

"But 30 dollars!" she tries to protest once more.

"Do you know what two stars mean? Two stars mean excellent cooking. Excellent!"

"Right I get it. Excellent," she repeats after him slowly with a considerable amount of sarcasm. "What is in those boxes anyway?"

"Sweet-sour duck with basmati rice."

"Oh! That's odd," she comments.

"Why do you think it's odd?"

"Because that's my favourite dish."

"See, no mistake. You're Allison Cameron. I've got your favourite dish. You pay the 30 dollars." There was no arguing with that, so she begrudgingly paid him the money, hoping he would then finally leave her alone. He does and that also with a rather annoyingly cheerful "Enjoy your meal and goodbye!" that sets her teeth on edge.

"Yeah, thanks," she mutters in response.

Inside the break room again, she gingerly puts the boxes on the table and regards them with something bordering on suspicion. She crosses her arms over her chest, wrinkling her forehead in quiet contemplation, then quickly picks up the phone. It's an old fashioned one, back from the eighties, plain white plastic with dial, nothing like those fancy telephones up in diagnostics. She quickly dials the number she by now knows by heart and waits for him to pick up. He does seconds later.

"Gregory…," she starts. Her overly-sweet intonation and the use of his given name clearly indicate that he's gotten himself in some deep, deep trouble...again.

"Yes, Allison," he answers unflinchingly. "I assume you called to tell me you were going to pick me up this afternoon...Because the good-news is, I'm going to be released today! Don't crush my hopes, will you?"

She sighs, massaging her temples. "Yeah, right. Terrific. No, actually that's not the reason I'm calling…"

"So you're not going to pick me up then?"

"No, no I will. I'll give you a lift and everything." She is grimacing and momentarily holding her hand over the speaker as she is cursing herself for behaving like Mother Theresa once again. "The thing is, I've just gotten a delivery from some Asian restaurant…"

"Oh, that…"

"Uh-huh. That."

"Don't you like duck sweet sour?" He inquires with something aching to disappointment in his voice.

"That's not it. You know I love it. I told you."

"So?"

"It cost 30 dollars."

"30 dollars?! Do they make their chopsticks out of gold?"

"No apparently they've got two stars, as the nice delivery guy pointed out."

"I see…"

"Yes." She spends some time pondering her next words, but eventually she decides for the unadorned plain version. "So you ordered that stuff, but you didn't pay for it, did you?"

"How do you expect me to pay?! I've got no money hidden away in that flimsy hospital nightgown of mine. And I don't intend to store it in any bodily openings. Ewww! Come to think of it, that would be really pathetic and rather gross."

Between the oncoming headache and the almost irresistible urge to strangle him, it's slowly starting to dawn on her what he's been trying to do. Suddenly her fantasies of murdering a certain male doctor dissolve into nothingness. As a matter of fact she's almost touched. "I'm sorry," she says quietly. "You've tried to be nice…" _At least his version of nice._

He smiles, but instead of saying something like 'no problem' or 'you're welcome' he decides for something that's more like him. "Yeah, but my niceness is entirely wasted on you."

"Trust me I know that feeling," she quips back and immediately covers her mouth with her hand afterwards. "Sorry, I don't know where that came from."

"Cameron, Cameron, Cameron…" He's shaking his head jokingly and though she can't see it, she can hear it rather well. "I'm starting to think they did some strange Frankenstein-brain-swap instead of that deep brain stimulation. Oh, I'm so mad right now, let me tell you! I seem to be stuck with all that yucky niceness! Now what am I going to do with that?"

"You'll just be my lobby art," she smiles. "Come to think of it, you do make a pretty decent piece of lobby art."

"Rude and not ginger," he mumbles.

"What was that?"

"Oh, just one symptom of watching entirely too much TV."

"Poor thing, you. I've got some pretty decent duck sweet-sour here. Want me to come up and share it with you?"

He grins, inwardly punching the air in triumph because really doing it would have been kind of ridiculous. "Sure. Why not?"


	12. Better Than A Soap Opera

Quite predictably she ends up driving him home. Now he's sitting next to her. He's inexplicably antsy and somewhat hyper, his left knee constantly bouncing up and down. It's making her nervous, so she lays her hand on his knee when they stop at the next traffic light and throws him an imploring look. "Please, stop it."

"Yes, Mum," he replies and sticks out his tongue at her. He's in a better mood than usual. Maybe because they finally let him out of the hospital. Maybe because he's finally able to self-medicate again, without anyone noticing how many pills he's really popping. _Oh, scratch that last thought!_ Of course, nobody could keep him from taking his beloved Vicodins. So what is it? She has to admit she hasn't even the slightest idea.

For once she decides to stop analysing everything to death and smiles back at him. Why shouldn't she allow herself to be in a good mood as well for no reason whatsoever? She looks at him, takes in his smile, stores the picture away in her memories. Sunlight catches in his blue irises and makes them look almost grey. She notices the wrinkles around his eyes. She doesn't see them often. He's not very generous with those smiles of his. A car honks behind them. The traffic light is green again.

Cameron flinches out of her daze and shifts gear. The car is moving again. He is chuckling silently, amused by her behaviour. She finds that it's not in her power to hold grudges today, so she lets it go without a comment. They're driving in companionable silence for a while until she decides to finally speak up. She has to ask him that question sometime. She's postponed it several times for his benefit, wouldn't ask it as long as he was recovering, but now she suddenly feels the need to hear an answer to it.

"Have you talked to Wilson yet?" There, it's out in the open. It was quite inevitable, really.

He looks at her sharply for a moment, she can feel his eyes regarding her profile not all too gently, then he finally answers. "No," it sounds like 'duh', "I prefer not to fight a two-front war, thank you. Didn't bode well for that little French guy either." His answer is not as hostile as she expected. After all it was better than getting no answer at all.

"A two-front war?" She looks at him questioningly. It's not like she doesn't have a vague idea what this could mean, but she prefers him to spell it out for her. Maybe that makes her a bit vain but she needs to hear him say that she's important to him in some way.

"Oh please! As if you don't know! Wilson's Russia, you can still choose. Spain or Britain?"

"History has never been my forte, but wasn't Napoleon forced to retreat from Russia?"

"Yup, that's why I prefer not to go there at all. Frosty and rather unwelcoming."

She laughs. "Don't you think we've taken that analogy far enough?"

"It's served its purpose, though."

She just nods and concentrates on driving again. She hasn't driven to House's apartment that often. Maybe a dozen times over the last four years. Usually her visits have been work related.

After a few minutes the car stops. They've reached their destination. She opens the door to get his things from the trunk. She has already shouldered his bag, when he steps up next to him. He's leaning against the side of her car casually, watching her. His gaze is lacking its usual detachment, it's almost tender. He reaches out and slips his long fingers under the strap of the bag, taking it off her shoulder.

She protests weakly, "No." For some reason it doesn't seem right to let him carry it. He's barely out of hospital. She wants to make things easier for him. It doesn't stop with the bag.

He throws her a lopsided grin and tugs more instantly at the strap. She relents with a disapproving frown.

"I'm not angry anymore," she blurts out. She's been holding in those words for too long now. It's been days since she's last felt angry at him. Now she mostly feels the need to be there for him. It hasn't escaped her how hard he's been trying to make things right with her, though the way he went about it was rather clumsy. But clumsy meant it was him, him trying to win her over again. He's made an effort. _One small step for man, one giant leap for House._ She would have to have a heart made out of stone not to forgive him.

"You're not angry anymore," he repeats, staring at her as if he wants to make sure that his self-established everybody-lies-rule doesn't apply to her. The question mark at the end of the sentence cannot be overheard.

"No," she shakes her head, "no two-front war anymore." For once the look in his eyes is too intense for her, she averts her eyes shyly because she isn't ready for that degree of intimacy yet. The looks passing between them have always meant more than words.

Even though she is fasinated by his eyes, even though she's curious to find out what he tries to communicate with mere looks, she doesn't feel comfortable enough to simply wait how this situation will turn out. So she the first to move towards the steps of the apartment building and after a brief moment of deliberation he follows as well.

She accompanies him to his door, waits till he has fiddled long enough with his keys to find the right one and has unlocked the door. The strange urge to leave takes a hold of her. She's suddenly jittery and nervous like a teenager. The situation between them is awkward. What happened between them before the accident seems so long ago. They were moving in a certain direction. Moving, yes, but where they would end up eventually was never clear.

"Okay, I'll better go now," she says and leans forward to press a quick kiss to his cheek. In her thoughts she's already halfway down the corridor, almost in her car, very nearly driving away to her apartment where she will hopefully be able to sort out that emotional mess she's in. But he stops her. Quite unexpectedly she suddenly finds herself in his embrace.

"No, don't," he says.

She melts, just because of those two words. It's like 'I love you' in curmudgeonese, which she's speaking quite fluently by now.

"Okay," she breathes, "I won't." There is no way avoiding eye contact right now. As a kid she always liked "the Jungle Book" a lot. She always found Kaa's hypnotizing eyes with those red spirals coming out of them rather funny. Back then she didn't have the faintest idea that it was possible to be transfixed by someone's gaze either or else she wouldn't have thought it funny in the first place. Her mouth suddenly goes dry and her mind's completely blank.

He does what she doesn't expect him to. Makes himself vulnerable. Because she can pull back anytime she wants to. His arms are now wrapped around her loosely. She can step out of the embrace anytime she wants. But she doesn't. She stays, waiting what will happen next.

He leans in slowly, almost tentatively. Their lips meet briefly. The kiss is not seductive. It's shy and hopeful like a first kiss, which it is in many regards. They start over, not from scratch but from square one. It's good, because for the longest time she's thought it was impossible for them. That they were fresh out of chances. She's suddenly feeling incredibly relieved like a weight is lifted of her shoulders.

He pulls back only to rest his forehead against hers and take a deep breath. Maybe she's not the only one who's relieved, she realizes. He looks at her with a serious expression on his face. She waiting for what he has to say, judging by the time he's taking for it, it has to be something big. "I'm sorry," he says with unexpected sincerity. She's surprised to hear him say it again and even more surprised that he so desperately craves her forgiveness. He needs to hear her say those words.

"I know that you are. And it's okay really," she pulls him closer to her impulsively. "I forgive you." She can feel him hug her back fiercely, his chin resting on her shoulder while her hands are rubbing soothingly over his back. She doesn't know how it feels for him but there's a lump in her throat and her vision is getting blurry. She doesn't want this to turn into a sobby scene, probably his neighbours are already lurking behind their spyholes already, she's particularly suspecting the old lady from 13B, so she disentangles herself him after a short while, quickly wiping at the corners of her eyes.

"No, waterworks," he admonishes with a lopsided grin, his voice softer than usual.

"No, waterworks," she promises sincerely and they step inside his apartment together.

The corridor is quiet after they close the door. After a few seconds the two shadows that have partially obscured the light-flooded space that is the space between the door of apartment 13B and the floor start moving. Mrs. Fink-Nottle makes her way to her comfortable armchair in front of her television, shaking her head. _The age difference! And if that wasn't enough, on top of all things, he's a drug addict._ She sits down, switching on her favourite soap. It's about doctors. The chief of medicine has just slept with his pretty young resident.

The room is dark. The blinds are drawn. He can't remember when he last got out of bed. He's still wearing the same clothes, the same shirt and trousers he had on when he last saw her. It feels like an eternity has passed since then and for all he knows it might have. He can't tell how much time has passed, how many days and hours, minutes, seconds. Knowing what date it is won't make things any easier.

There is no sound inside the room except for his even breathing and the occasional rustle of the sheets when he turns. Sometimes the silence is interrupted by the ringing telephone. He lets it ring, lets the answering machine take care of that nuisance. He doesn't want to deal with people and their regrettful reassurances. The pity in their voices would only make him angry. And anger is not the appropriate response to condolences, he's quite sure of that.

He's counted the times the telephone has rung. At first the calls came quite hesitantly but the last couple of days the phone has been ringing more and more. He's counted sixty calls. Certainly some of them have called twice because he doesn't know that many people. He tries to distract himself, in order to not have to think of her, tries to guess who those callers might have been. Cuddy, yes, Cuddy for sure. Why would she call? To tell him that he can take a few days off, maybe. To tell him she's sorry. And perhaps Cameron. He dimly remembers her visiting him in his office. But it's been so shortly after, after what happened to Amber, that he can't seem to remember what Cameron said, but he knows without a doubt what their conversation must have been about. Who else has called? His parents, of course. He goes through the list of names, but deliberately leaves out one name. The one friend in particular he doesn't want to hear from right now. House.

But it's no use wondering about the identity of those callers. Sooner or later the answering machine will play those missed calls to him anyway. He dreads that moment, but doesn't have the energy to simply get up and delete them. He suspects it will happen rather sooner than later, because sixty calls? Who's he kidding?

And as if someone had heard those thoughts, the phone starts ringing again. He's listening to the obnoxious sound that echoes in his ears and merges with the next ring. This time the phone is bothering him more than the last couple of times. The caller must be particularly annoying. The answering machine picks up. He's relieved the noise has finally stopped, but the relief disappears instantly. "Hey Wilson," he hears House's voice over the answering machine. House pauses, apparently at a loss for words. As he should be. Wilson sits up in bed and stars hostily towards the living room where the answering machine sits on a table quite innocently. "It's me. Yeah, guess you really don't want to talk right now," House has the audacity to sigh. Wilson is outraged. "Anyway, let me know if you do." Another pause. Wilson is fuming. He gets out of bed. Is that bastard expecting him to actually answer the phone or what is he waiting for?

"Bye," House says and hangs up. Wilson's standing in his bedroom. He's breathing heavily. He's furious. But for the first time in one week he's out of bed.

tbc


	13. In My Dreams You Were Perfect

The fact that House quickly puts away his cell phone the second she walks into the room makes her slightly suspicious. For a second she doesn't know whether she should ask him straight out who he's called because she doesn't want to come off as obnoxious and prying, but then her curiosity gets the better of her and she has to ask.

"Who did you call?" she says, trying for nonchalant while she hands him one of two bottles of beer she's just gotten from his surprisingly well stocked fridge.

"No one," he lies unflinchingly and with a huge and rather fake grin on his face.

"No, seriously," she insists, because now she's getting really curious and even a tad bit jealous.

"A hooker," House throws her another devilish grin before he takes a sip from his bottle.

"Okay, fine. Don't tell," she crosses her arms over her chest. The expression on her face is dangerously close to developing into a fully fledged pout.

He sighs and lays his arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer to him despite of those evil looks she's shooting him. "Alright, it was Wilson."

At that she smiles. No, she practically beaming as if he's just told her he's won the noble prize or something. "Really?" Her voice is even rising a pitch thanks to her excitement, he notices with dismay.

"Yeah, really." He bites back another sarcastic comment because she seems to be genuinely happy he's called Wilson and he doesn't want to spoil that for her. Maybe it means that he's done something right for once, which is quite the achievement, at least from his perspective because sometimes he has trouble telling right from wrong. He's blurred the lines between those two so often he hardly sees the difference between them anymore. But he couldn't care less about ethical dilemmas. They are hardly worth the trouble. In the end it all boils down to one important realization. He likes making her happy. It beats making her angry or cry any day.

"So how did it go?" Apparently she's determined to make being nice especially hard for him. He has to make quite an effort not to keep his tongue in check.

"Not good. He didn't pick up. But at least I called, right? That's already something."

She looks at him pensively for a while then finally speaks up. "So you think Wilson and you will eventually make up?"

"Very eventually," he says with a sigh.

She scoots closer to him on the couch and leans her head against his shoulder. She feels tired and isn't quite sure why. The last couple of days have been nothing out of the ordinary, nevertheless she feels exhausted - emotionally exhausted, maybe.

"We've made up," she points out.

"Yeah," he presses a kiss to her temple distraughtly. The TV is flickering and casting blue, white and green light on the carpet in front of it. "I never really understood, though."

"What?" She turns her head to look at him.

"Why you were mad at me."

She looks at him for a while without saying anything. She does so until he feels thoroughly scrutinized by her. He doesn't mind. It isn't an unpleasant feeling after all. Maybe she wishes for it to feel unpleasant, but she can try all she wants. Her gentle nature is always palpable. It's an integral part of her character. As is something else he can't exactly lay a finger on. Is it melancholy? He's not quite sure. It's who she is. He's never seen her completely at ease. There's never been a minute when she's been completely light-hearted and giggly. There's always been a sense of gravity about her. As to the reasons why that is so he has developed quite the intriguing little theory. No need to be a genius for that.

"It's because of your husband, isn't it?" he finally asks.

Her eyes narrow. The expression on her face turns rather pensive. "I don't know," she admits after a while. He sees something akin to defeat in her eyes. "Maybe...I can't help but feel sorry for him. I hate to think Wilson's just going through the same stuff I went through back then."

"And you blamed me?" There's a hint of irritation in his voice.

"Yes," she replied hesitantly. "I know…it was stupid and wrong and above all irrational. But I just couldn't help myself. I'm sorry." Her eyes are pleading with him now. She's begging him to understand and forgive her. "If it's any consolation, I think it was only part of it, though." She's crinkling her nose pensively. "I could have just been as easily in her place. I know that's a selfish thought to be having, but I can't help but wonder what would have happened if it had been me and not her on that bus."

"But it wasn't you," he says quietly.

"No."

"I'm very glad it wasn't you," he whispers and smoothes back her hair. "Is that selfish?"

"Very much so. But I'm glad too. So we're both quite selfish." His hand continues stroking her hair. She sighs, looking at him gravely. "I guess that makes us both very selfish and mean people."

"Well, I don't give a damn if it's selfish and mean. You're here. I've got you back. It feels good."

"Nicely said," she gives him a weak smile. "But still. She's dead. I know, it wasn't your fault she is. You did everything you could to save her. But how do we deal with that? How do we deal with everything that's happened?" She's unconsciously taken his hand in hers. Her fingers a tightly entwined with his now, so tightly he can feel her pulse.

"No idea."

"Maybe we just need time."

"Time? Time doesn't sound good. You don't want to break up with me, do you?" He frowns at her.

Despite the seriousness of the situation she has to smile at him. "No, I didn't mean that. I'm not sure how to do this," she confesses after a while.

"What? Breaking up?" he asks. As always he casually ignores subtle undertones of a conversation.

"No, you dumbass! This reconciliation thing," Cameron tries to explain.

"I hear makeup sex is highly recommendable."

"Of course, you do," she answers quietly and snuggles closer to his side. "I just don't know if I'm ready for that."

"So what are you ready for?" He presses a kiss to her temple. His breath tickles her skin as he says those words. She shivers ever so slightly.

"I don't know," she whispers, kissing him back. Her lips press against his cheek. They linger, taste him, then finally hesitate, just like the rest of her. Again, she's feeling uncharacteristically shy, like she's somehow been catapulted back to her teenage years. Then, as if that wasn't enough, he suddenly decides to turn his head to look at her and make things ever more difficult. Now his face is only inches away from hers, which is making the situation even more complicated. Should she close the distance between them? If she does, what will happen? Will everything be alright again? She feels helpless unable to tell what will be the right decision.

However, despite of everything that's happened, she realizes, she still cares. Not only does she care. It would have been a crass understatement to label her feelings that way. What she feels is beyond mere caring. It's been five years. Five whole years. Everything has changed. Nothing has changed. That realization is a bitter pill to swallow. "God! This whole thing is so messed up!" She thinks out aloud, running a hand through her hair. "I'm so messed up."

"You're perfectly fine the way you are," he asserts her, which is a completely un-House-like thing to say, but he says it anyway. He's not being sarcastic or mean. He's just sitting there, holding her in his arms, stroking her hair. She can't tell the reason why he does that, but it doesn't feel like a smokescreen. He's not doing it to please her. He's doing it because he wants to. Maybe that's the reason she continues talking. Suddenly all those words are pouring out of her. However much she's trying she can't keep them in. They are making her feel silly and embarrassed, but because they are all true it would be hypocrisy to try to take them back now.

"I don't know. After everything that's happened I should have been mad, but for some reason I wasn't. It was like deep down I still held that soft spot for you. Which is…stupid really, because you're nothing like me and then again you are. We're like magnets, sometimes we attract each other, other times we repel each other…"

"You say that like it's bad thing." His tone is teasing, but his facial expression quickly looses all humour when he meets her eyes. She's dead serious, so he sobers up as well. "Why do you tell me that? What am I supposed to do about it? Do you want me to change?" he enquires curiously.

She hesitates before she finally answers. "No. The only thing I want is for you to be happy."

"Well, if it makes you feel better, I want myself to be happy too." He feels like an idiot saying that, like a complacent insensitive idiot, but he says it nevertheless.

"Do you enjoy this? I'm making a complete ass out of myself," Cameron sighs tiredly, "just because you're being dense on purpose."

"Yes, I am being dense on purpose," he finally admits. "But you are as well." Then, to demonstrate he's understood what she's been trying to tell him for the last couple of minutes, he says the words she's been so carefully avoiding. "You love me."

"Yes," she says softly. What else is she to do at this point, when it's so blatantly obvious?

She not expecting him to say anything after her somewhat impromptu declaration of love, but he surprises her and does. "That's not stupid. Not at all…"

"Oh, I don't know about that," she's embarrassed, looking down at her feet. Her toes are curling and uncurling, nervously digging into the soft carpet. "Well, it is certainly not the smartest idea."

"I see," he just says, fixing her a with knowing look "It's because of the pills, the alcohol, the rudeness and…" he momentarily stops to think, "Does the age difference bother you?" She shakes her head, looking a bit stunned. He nods, apparently satisfied with her answer. "So, it's basically the rest."

"No," Cameron vehemently shakes her head.

"I don't get you," he throws up his hand in frustration.

"No, you clearly don't," she chuckles nervously, running her hand through her hair.

"But I want to understand." His eyes narrow. She can quite literally observe as his desire to finally figure her out is rekindled. He wants answer and he wants them fast. She won't disappoint him this time. He's provoked her to the point where she doesn't care whether the situation will be mortifying for the both of them. It will be cathartic to finally get this out of her system. Nevertheless she wants to give him one last chance to back out of this.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," he nods determinedly.

"Okay," she stretches the little word to win some time. "It's just….," she swallows, then takes a deep breath and straightens. Her eyes meet his and they are staring at each other for a moment completely transfixed. Then time starts running again. "It's just not a very clever idea to keep loving you if you'll never love me back."

He smiles. He actually smiles, then that smile turns into booming laughter. She looks at him in utter and complete bafflement, which is rapidly turning into anger the longer the situation goes on.

Luckily he notices in time. "God, you have such an inferiority complex!" he's managed to suppress his laughter enough to be able to talk. There's still that insupportable grin, though, which she wants to punch right out of his face.

"You really have some nerve…," she starts, her eyes flashing with anger and hurt.

He ignores her comment and continues talking as if nothing had happened. "And in addition to being dense and having that amusing inferiority complex, you're also in absolute denial. The amount of grovelling I did to get you back must somehow have escaped your notice..."

"Grovelling doesn't equal love," she crosses her arms over her chest.

"Think, Allison. How many times in the last five years have you seen me ask someone for forgiveness? How many times have you seen me do it and really mean it?"

She shrugs her shoulders weakly. "I don't know." Her defences are breaking down, but not fast enough.

He realizes right then and there she needs him to say those silly little three words. He also realizes he's completely and utterly screwed because he's unable to say them. It's not that the feelings aren't there, he's just too messed up to say 'I love you' yet. How on earth is he supposed to fix this situation if he can't give her what she wants? Worse still, he wants to be able to say it too.

Ironically the words that leave his mouth instead of 'I love you' are: "You have no idea how much I hate myself right now…"

She looks at him in alarm, ready to be striken down by the next sentence that leaves his mouth. She even flinches back when he reaches out to touch her. It comes rather unexpected to her. She expected to be verbally pushed away, she expected him to leave. He doesn't. He stays. His fingers touch her cheek and caress it ever so softly. His eyes are pleading her to understand. He doesn't know if she does, but he sure hopes and prays she will. When he leans in and softly kisses her lips, he fears she will not respond, but she does. After a moment of hesitation she finally gives in. He takes her hand and places it over his heart that his hammering away inside his chest. She surely must feel it through the thin cotton of his t-shirt.

"I think we're both being a little dense," he says softly.

She looks at him in surprise. She finally understands. "You love me, too."

Her heart almost stops when he finally answers 'yes'.

tbc


	14. A True Friend Stabs You In The Front

It's Monday afternoon. He's sitting in his comfortable office chair, spinning around. He's pushed it back a couple of inches so he won't pump his knee (not the bad one fortunately) against the desk again like the first time he tried. He only needs one leg to push himself off, the other one just hangs there, useless as usual. The pictures on the wall are just a smear of colour, in fact the whole room's just smears of colour mixing together.

Wilson's back to work. He didn't tell him he would be back. He had to find out by accident. He was just staring out of the window again, not really looking at Wilson's deserted office. Oh, no, because he's never doing that. Never. Not once. So he was staring at the window and suddenly saw a shadow moving about in the office. It wasn't the cleaning lady. The cleaning lady only comes on Thursday. He found that out last week. It was somebody else. So he limped over there. All the way down the corridor to Wilson's office. And Wilson was there. Just like that. He was beginning to ask himself whether he was suddenly seeing ghosts, but then Wilson started talking to him. Well, first they exchanged 'hellos' which was rather awkward. After a strained pause Wilson finally asked him in a rather monotonous voice if there was something he wanted. That was more than House had expected, but still less than he had hoped for. Second ugly surprise in a row: Wilson was packing up his belonging, telling him he had quit his job and would soon be working for another hospital. Of course he protested, but trying to persuade Cuddy to wear less revealing tops would have had about the same effect. _All quite senseless._

Their brief exchange ended with Wilson informing him curtly they were no longer friends. So basically the whole encounter was an utter success. That's why he's sitting there now, spinning mindlessly in his office chair like a child that's just dropped his ice cream cone.

The office door has opened several times. His reaction to that has quite predictably always been a gruffly mumbled "Go away!" So his team is probably now off, trying to collectively waste its time in the clinic. Hopefully one of them has had enough sense to do his clinic duty. He's not particularly keen on a visit from Cuddy at the moment. Speaking of the devil, the office door opens again. He's rather annoyed. "Go away!" turns into a hissed "You have twenty seconds to turn around and run for your life." Whoever this newcomer is, he or she seems determined not to head his well-meant warning. He keeps spinning. Since he's unable to spin in his grave he has to stick to the office chair.

He's even less amused when someone abruptly stops the chair. Were it not for the momentarily disorientation and the dizziness, he would have clomped this idiot over the head with his cane. Oh, right! The idiot's Cameron. And she's looking oddly sympathetic for just having been threatened.

"He came to see me down at the ER," she says simply.

"Who? Richard Gere? The Dalai Lama? Wait! Wait! I've got it…It was Barack. He was trying to do some last minute campaigning, right?" He asks, trying to buy some time by feigning ignorance.

Her eyes narrow and she regards him for a second, her head tilted to the left, "No, it was Eric Clapton. He asked for you, even wanted to autograph your guitar."

"Oh, great! You can send him right up next time."

She's not in the mood for games today. Her patience is wearing thin, thanks to a double shift that has just ended. Cameron sighs. "You know that I was talking about Wilson, right?"

"Yes, of course I know. You could have said so right from the start. I don't need to be cuddled. You should know by now that that whole sensitivity crap is entirely wasted on me."

"I don't think so," she says, then leans in to hug him without a warning. He just mumbles something rude into her hair, while he inhales a whiff of that vanilla shampoo she likes to use. He's trying to ignore the fact that the hug feels good, all warm and vanillay. She pulls back after a moment, shooting him a reproachful look. He knows it's not because of what he's said. It's something else. He's not hugged back.

"Told you so," he grumbles, crossing his arms over his chest. He knows that he's acting downright childish, but he doesn't want to lash out at her. She doesn't deserve that, so childish behaviour is his last refuge from evilness.

"You look sad," she retorts.

"I don't."

"I know what happened."

"Great, then I don't have to repeat the whole conversation to you. How thoughtful of **your** friend Wilson!"

Again they've reached a point where she just wants to smack him over the head with something hard and heavy, but she bravely resists that urge for his benefit. "Oh, will you please just suck it up! I've got a plan."

He looks at her his eyes wide, blinking slowly several times. She just did something completely unexpected. This never happened before. Cameron has got a plan. He hasn't. He's baffled into speechlessness. The moment passes. "Would you mind telling me something about that ingenious plan of yours?" He looks at her curiously.

*

She's never been a manipulator. Unlike House she doesn't like to apply her ability to read people to make them do what she wants. Free will is something good. Well, most of the times. Of course, harm should be prevented whenever possible. Maybe even under any costs. Yes, she likes keeping people out of harm's way. It's one of the reasons why she became a doctor.

So that's why she now doing some amateur dabbling into the vast and rather dangerous field of manipulation. Many would regard what she's about to attempt as particularly taxing. On her first time she's taking on two master manipulators, which is quite brave, but also rather foolish. House who has perfected that skill of manipulation over many years, veiling his true intentions behind sarcastic remarks and Wilson who often uses, at least according to House, emotional black mail to get what he wants.

Convincing House had quite surprisingly been the easier part of her plan. Nowadays her leverage on him was greater. Especially when she is trying to get him to agree to something which she knows he already wants on a subconscious level. He wants to reconcile with Wilson, desperately. After all he was, notice the use of the past tense there, his only friend.

Now the only one who still needed convincing was Wilson. Right after her conversation with House she sought him out in his office. Her determination made her rather blunt and less diplomatic than usual. After all she was on a mission. Her mind was set on the goal, no time for small talk. Nevertheless the few sympathetic words she addressed him with before she got right to the heart of the matter, were heartfelt and genuine. She told him that he looked worn and thin, of course her choice of words was much more diplomatic. She immediately followed them up with her invitation to dinner, just like planned.

"Would you like to come over to dinner tonight?"

Upon hearing her question Wilson looks dazed, slowly blinking a couple of times. She can see the wheels inside his head turning. His lips press together in a thin line before he answers.

"Will he be there?"

There's no use lying to him, also no use asking who he means by 'he'. "Yes."

"Allison," he says exasperatedly. "You know House and I…"

She interrupts him. "You're not friends anymore. I remember. You told me."

"So why? Why would you invite me over to dinner when you clearly know that I can't stand being near him?" he looks up at her imploringly from his sitting position behind the desk.

She steps closer, leans over the table a little, her fingertips pressed against the cool surface of the desk. "Because he can't stand being without you."

"Don't you think that's a tad bit melodramatic," Wilson shakes his head tiredly. "You make it sound like we can't exist without each other, like we're a couple or something, which is especially strange coming from your side."

"Not 'a' couple. More like the odd couple as in Lemmon and Matthau," she smiles softly. Her smile is as always a little infectious. Corners of Wilson's mouth briefly twitch, but any smile coming from him these days is either not heartfelt or ironic.

"He does need you, you know," she adds finally.

"He's got you."

"Yes, but I'm not you. I'm not his best friend."

Wilson says nothing then, just averts his gaze. His expression is somewhat vacant. Does she imagine it or is there something akin to guilt in his eyes. She keeps pushing. "Please, Jimmy, give it one last go. You owe your friendship as much."

Right then and there he looks at her, anger flashing in his eyes. "I don't owe anybody anything. Not after what happened."

"Not even yourself?" she waits for him to say something, but he doesn't. "Maybe you could try and find out whether you can forgive him, whether you can live with what has happened."

"Why should I? What good would it do? It would be much easier the other way…"

"Would it?"

"Yes, it would," he says, his voice deep, almost threatening. She knows she is pushing her luck here, endangering her own friendship with Wilson. If she didn't know it was for the greater good, she would have dropped the subject minutes ago.

However, despite the fact that she can hear warning bells ringing in her ears, Cameron decides not to take that not so subtle hint. "It's just one evening. Two hours, three hours tops…"

"No," he says flatly.

"Alright," she shrugs her shoulders. "At least I can't say I haven't tried," she sighs tiredly and straightens, subconsciously tugging at her crinkled pink scrubs. Normally the conversation would have ended there, but she doesn't move.

Wilson watches her curiously as she's standing there her arms crossed over her chest with a pensive expression on her face. "What now?" he asks finally, his voice devoid of animosity.

"I don't know," Cameron smiles shyly. "I was kind of hoping I would be able to convince you." He throws her a reproachful look. "Yeah, I know, what was I thinking, right? I just have to regroup for a second."

"You don't know what to tell him when you report back to him?" he asks, leaning back in his office chair.

"This wasn't his idea," she clarifies. Wilson's eyebrows raise sceptically. "No, really this one's entirely on me."

"Figures…," he sighs, massaging his temples tiredly.

"What's that supposed to mean?" she asks a tad bit irritated.

"That means be careful. He's rubbing off on you."

"He's not." She waves of his warning with a nonchalant hand gesture. "Besides, I had dinner planned. Completely harmless."

"Right." Wilson looks at her suspiciously.

"Cross my heart and hope to die." Cameron smiles trying to instill confidence. She's not only doing this for House, but for the three of them. Though she's willing to whether the crisis with House, she would be glad if it could be avoided. She likes to get along with everybody. She likes everybody to get along.

When she looks at Wilson she's seeing herself five years ago. Unlike back then she now knows that running away is no solution.

"Do you trust me?" she asks him. One last desperate attempt to break his risolve. After all she's only got his best intentions at heart.

He hesitates. "I guess, I do."

"Then trust me on this and come."

"Alright. But I'm not doing this for him," he holds out his index finger admonishingly, "I'm just doing it, because you asked me and it apparently means a lot to you."


	15. Pumpkin Soup 1

He is sitting on the couch watching TV, but he's not really watching. His mind isn't focused on the lame talk show flickering over the TV screen. He can hear her feet padding over the soft carpet, back and forth, back and forth. For the hundredths time? No idea. A couple of days ago he saw an interesting video on the Internet. No, not that kind of video! Some crazy guy made it his own personal project to film himself once a day for a whole year. He's feeling exactly like that guy right now. The foreground's all static, him sitting on the couch in front of the TV, Cameron's zooming in and out of the kitchen in the background. Occasionally she swears under her breath or just bemoans the lack of time for preparing a four-star menu like she originally intended. From her comments he can tell that they are going to have to settle for two stars instead.

Finally he's had enough. He turns around. "What the fuck are you doing?"

She freezes mid-movement, a salad bowl in her hands. The expression in her eyes is a mixture of desperation and exasperation. "What does it look like I'm doing? I'm preparing dinner."

"From here it rather looks like your in full-on panic mode, but I might be wrong," he waves it off and takes a swing of the bottle of beer that's been gradually warming up on her coffee table over the last twenty minutes, leaving some impressive watermarks on the dark wood. He's been trying to create the likeness of the Olympic rings but at some point he lost his concentration for which she is to blame, entirely, which brings him back to the discussion at hand. He looks at her, waiting impatiently for her reply.

"I'm not panicking." A shrill noise can be heard from the kitchen. She flinches and throws a worried glance in the direction from where the ringing came. Probably the egg-timer.

He takes advance of the situation, leans over the couch and grabs her wrist, slightly tucking at it. She looks at him with wide questioning eyes which subtly say "What now?"

"Sit down, have a sip. I hear alcohol has a calming effect on most people, though in your case I suppose beer won't do the trick," he looks at her pensively for a while before he finally speaks his verdict. "What about a glass of scotch?" he offers, knowing fully well that she doesn't like scotch.

As expected Cameron crinkles her nose in disgust. Nevertheless she puts down the bowl on the table, then holds out her hand to take the offered bottle of beer from him. She takes quite an impressive swing. He snickers softly. "It's even worse then I expected."

She just glares. "I haven't cooked in half a year. Usually it's take-away or I eat something at the cafeteria. I just don't have the time, you know," she quickly explains. The words come out quickly as a compressed, angry flood. He is far from feeling threatened. Actually he thinks she's kind of cute, but he would never tell her that. Only over his dead body will the word 'cute' ever pass his lips. Instead he just smiles and says, "Guess I better leave you to it then. Sounds like you still have a lot of work ahead of you." As if on cue the egg-timer starts ringing again. This time it sounds almost plaintive. She whips around and runs off to the kitchen. He focuses his attention on the TV again, smiling amusedly.

*

The silence between them is stretching on. It's so quiet he can hear the crunch crunch of the salad leaves inside his own head as he is chewing them. It annoys him. Plus, the salad tastes kind of acidy like someone's used too much vinegar for the dressing. That certain someone is now sitting across from him, on the other side of the table. For her sake he's bravely suppressing the urge to crinkle his nose at the sour taste of the salad when he swallows the next forkful of it. Quite predictably Wilson says nothing. Nothing at all. He doesn't even attempt to make small talk. For some reason that makes him feel disappointed.

"I think, I kind of exaggerated with the vinegar," Cameron finally says breaking the silence. As always she's rather hard on herself. It shows how insecure she really feels.

Wilson's reaction is also quite predictable. "Oh, nonsense! The salad's fine the way it is," he reassures her, even though the way he listlessly attacks the leaves with his fork tells a whole other story entirely.

"Thanks," she smiles and he can tell she sees through his well-mannered lie. He just continues eating, unable and unwilling to contribute to their clumsy attempts at a civilized conversation.

Things get worse when she leaves to prepare the next course, leaving him and Wilson behind. He's almost considering doing something completely atypical like helping her in the kitchen, just to escape the uncomfortable situation of having to spend the next couple of minutes alone with Wilson.

It feels uncomfortable until he realizes that no matter what he'll say or do, he probably won't be able to make things worse. Since Wilson has already declared their friendship as officially over, he doesn't have anything to lose anymore.

"Up for a little scotch in between courses? If the rest of this meal she's prepared is anything like the salad, we will need it."

Wilson isn't laughing. Big surprise there. "I think she's put a lot of effort into this."

"Sure. But it still tastes like crap."

"I'm sure she'll be delighted to hear that." His remark is neither sarcastic nor mocking. Just plain serious and kind of scolding. It's meant to shut him up. The days where they would casually fall into friendly banter after a remark like that are over.

The hostile silence is interrupted by the sound of breaking dishes and loud swearing coming from the kitchen. He quickly walks over to the kitchen door and peers inside the room to make sure everything's okay. The floor's swimming with some kind of orange liquid. Hasn't she announced she wanted to make pumpkin soup? The pieces of the scattered porcelain are everywhere, the smaller ones floating on the ex-pumpkin soup like croutons. She's standing with her back to him, so he can't see her face.

"Everything alright in here?" he asks instinctively. "Have you burned yourself?"

"No, I'm fine." The way her voice quivers when she answers he can tell she's actually far from being okay. He steps further into the kitchen leaving the door behind him ajar. She hastily starts picking up the pieces of the broken plate still swearing under her breath. "Why can't I never do anything right?" she mutters to herself accusingly.

He walks over to the sink, gets a cloth and kneels down besides her circumstantially, in situations like that his bad leg particularly annoys him. He can't tell her right now that to him she's perfect, that she always does everything right. The words are in his head, but they probably will never pass his lips. Instead he helps her clean up the mess wordlessly, throwing glances at her from the corner of his eyes. He doesn't know what to say or do, but he knows that it's his job being here right now. She's crying.

_Damn! Why does she have to be crying now?_ He knows perfectly well why she is crying. It's not over a plate of spilled soup, it's because of what's happened in the last couple of weeks, because of too many double shifts and because she's put herself under too much pressure again with her need to fix everything, make everything perfect. The expression on her face is kind of vacant, her eyes see through him, in fact they fixed on something behind him. The stove, he realizes. He sniffs a couple of times. Smells like something is burning. He whips around and looks at the stove. The stove out of which smoke is slowly spiralling towards the ceiling. He swears, gets to his feet, as fast as one can with a crippled leg, grabs the pot that is still half filled with pumpkin soup and standing on the hotplate and empties it into the stove. There is a loud hiss and more smoke. Distractedly he turns off the stove, before he turns around to look at her. _Great! More crying._

"I suck at cooking," she says, looking at him with huge watery eyes. The situation is so absurd he can't help but smile despite of the flooded kitchen floor and the remains of a roast smouldering in the stove behind him. She glares at him despite her tears, but before she can start shouting at him, letting him know what an insensitive ass he is, he's walked up to her and taken her in his arms.

"I suppose you do," he says, still smiling. She trying to come up with a sarcastic remark, but swallows it down. Him smiling a genuine smile is a rare occurrence. She doesn't want to spoil that for some reason.

He pulls back after a while to look at her. His eyes are gentle and full of mirth. "But I hey, you do everything else right. It wouldn't be fair on everybody else if you didn't have a weak point. Besides, that way we have a pretty decent excuse for ordering take-away. And we do love take-away, don't we?" She looks at him, blinking slowly. Has he just called her perfect?

"Are you alright?" She asks him still sniffling a bit from crying earlier.

"Are you?" he asks her, actually sounding concerned.

"I don't know. I guess. Apart from the fact that I've just ruined my kitchen? Why wouldn't I be alright. Peachy."

"It's just a kitchen," he shrugs his shoulders. "You can practise. Burn down mine as well if you want to. Will that make you feel better?"

She chuckles at his last remark. She looks baffled at the sound as if it even surprised her. "Maybe."

"Maybe, she says," he repeats jokingly. The smile is slowly disappearing from his face. The lines around his eyes smooth a bit, but don't disappear entirely. She likes them. They remind her that he does allow himself to smile from time to time.

"I love you," he says softly.

She doesn't have time enough to reply. She blinking repeatedly, suppressing the urge to pinch herself in order to make sure it isn't a dream. But the way he's nervously shifting on his feet tells her that she hasn't dreamed the last sentence. Apparently it was one of those spur of the moment things. Something he didn't premeditate. Realizing that makes her happy, because now she's convinced he's really meant it. He on the other hand is feeling less good about his impromptu confession.

"Hey," he awkwardly steps out of the embrace, "why don't you clean up this battleground in here and I try to convince Wilson that ordering in is a good idea?"

"Sounds like a plan," she smiles at him. Momentarily she's tempted to kiss him senseless, but she'll save that for later when they are alone.

cc


	16. Pumpkin Soup 2

When he enters the room, he finds Wilson quite skilfully faking interest in Cameron's book shelf, inspecting it interestedly, his arms behind his back, squinting his myopic eyes to better make out the titles.

"You should stop being vain and finally buy yourself a proper pair of glasses like I did," House remarks, causing Wilson to turn around abruptly.

"Found anything interesting?" he pauses for dramatic effect before he answers his own question. "I doubt it. The juicy stuff's next to her bedside table. That's where she keeps all her sappy romance novels. Maybe you girls can start a book club or something. I'm sure Cameron would be thrilled to lend you her latest Ahern."

Wilson gives him a weak half smile. Both of them know that playing silly little games like this is quite senseless. House is very much aware of the fact that Wilson has overheard his conversation with Cameron, just like Wilson knows he's been caught. They simultaneously decide to give up pretences. Unfortunately for House his former best friend comes to that conclusion only a fraction of a second earlier than him. Advantage Wilson.

"You've changed. I could be wrong, but what I've overheard from your conversation in the kitchen certainly indicates as much," Wilson remarks. Having dropped that particularly bombshell on him, he casually strides over to his chair, sits down in it and crosses his arms over his chest. His complacency almost makes House gag.

"So you still enjoy prying into the lives of other people. I thought you gave up on that a while ago," he's trying, more or less successfully, to cover up the fact that he's embarrassed with his sarcastic remark. iWhere's Cameron? Isn't it her job as a girlfriend to keep the mood from turning sour by stuffing food down their throats and regaling them with interesting little anecdotes? She is certainly doing a bang-up job./i "Cameron! Where's that damned menu of the 'Golden Palace'? I can't find it anywhere," he barks in the direction of the kitchen, but this time Cameron won't come to his rescue. Maybe she wants to give him a chance to patch up things with Wilson on his own or maybe she's still busy cleaning up the mess she made or maybe she just downright evil and likes him to suffer. He scowls.

Wilson laughs. So his discomfort is amusing. He's momentarily tempted to wipe that smug smile out of his face, but the feeling of relief upon seeing him smile a genuine smile for the first time in weeks prevails, even though the joke's on him this time.

"I'm afraid you're on your own, House," he states amusedly.

"Looks like it," House replies and sits down opposite Wilson, eying him suspiciously.

Neither of them says anything for a while. Wilson's laughter slowly dies down. A few amused hums, he shakes his head amusedly, then he clears his throat and the smile's gone. They're watching each other like two enemy generals who consider whether they should attack each other once again or start negotiations for a seize-fire.

The thing is after what has happened in the last couple of weeks, the complete lack of communication, the fact that he has missed his best friend, House is ready to make the first step. After what he's been through with Cameron he's already used to grovelling, though you don't grovel easily with a bummer leg and innate misanthropy.

"I'm sorry for your loss," House finally says uneasily, unable to meet Wilson's eye. Apparently this is the night of unexpected confessions and as usual House isn't dealing well with the unexpected, especially when he's the one experiencing several fits of unexpected humanity. Sudden mutation? Or rather something he caught from Cameron?

"Thank you," Wilson answers hesitantly. The mood has changed. The pauses in between words have once again become unpleasant to the point where they are barely tolerable.

"How have you been?" Asking that question is like a Herculean effort to House. But he's heard that showing interest in somebody else's life is supposed to be a good idea when you trying to come off as less self-absorbed and egocentric, so he forces himself to do so.

"Are you really interested in that?" Wilson asks with a sharp edge to his voice.

House hears the warning bells, but he doesn't know what to do. This conversation is a disaster. He's not in control of it. He can't predict what will happen. It's like you're riding a bobsled down an icy tunnel without knowing what to do. Easily one of the worst experiences of his life. "I guess," he says helplessly.

"You guess," Wilson spits out contemptuously. "Well, isn't that grand? Better make up your mind. For a second I was actually suspecting you were developing some interest in my well-being."

House is just about to prepare an answer in his head, but he's not faring very well. Cameron would know what to say, she's usually rather good with all that crappy emotional stuff. And wasn't that stupid dinner thing her idea after all? Why isn't she here now helping him like she should? He's not about to cry out for her like some three-year-old toddler but he's sure shooting the kitchen door some longing looks.

"I do care about your well-being," he finally says resignedly. No one's going to save him now.

Wilson lets out an ironic laugh. "Really? I've never met a more egoistical person than you in my entire life. All you care about is yourself. You're so focused on your own misery that you don't see the others around you suffering. In fact, the whole reason we're having this conversation right now is because you're miserable, because you need someone to tell you what's wrong and right. You don't care how I feel. I'm just convenient to you. Entertaining enough to keep your interest, dumb enough to put up with you crap for years and years."

Now what's the appropriate answer to that? No idea. "I don't know what to say." An uncomfortable pause stretches on between sentences before House finally continues talking. "What do you want me to say, Jimmy?"

Wilson is shocked by the helpless expression on House's face. It occurs to him that his words must have hit him. He never would have guessed that House could be hurt by something he said. He's not that emotionally crippled to actually enjoy hurting him. It's like kicking a puppy. Wilson is very much the opposite of a person who kicks puppies. He'd much rather take them in and give them food. But House isn't a puppy. He knows that. If he were a puppy he'd probably bite him and give him rabies.

For a moment he lets himself dream that old impossible dream again that House might actually have the potential to become a decent human being, that with just a tiny nudge in the right direction he would be able to make it eventually. His resolve to hate him crumbles, at least a bit.

"What do I want you to say?"

"Nothing," he says after a while resignedly. "Nothing at all."

"Okay, I'll shut up then if that's what you want," House huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. A couple of moments pass in relative silence. There is the sound of Cameron's soft swearing coming from the kitchen, of course, she must be still cleaning up, then there is that creaking noise House's chair makes when he shifts his weight.

"It was a bad idea to come here," Wilson finally interrupts the silence.

"Well, depends what kind of expectations you had regarding this evening. When you were expecting bad food and even worse conversation, we've certainly managed to exceed your expectation, haven't we?"

Despite himself Wilson has to smile a little. It's that moment precisely when he has a little epiphany. "Maybe it was just a bad idea to come here now."

"Oh, so when would have been better? Next Thursday maybe?" House is being dense on purpose, Wilson can tell. He just waits for him to come around. Eventually he does. "You mean you're not over it."

It takes all of Wilson's will power not to throw over the table upon hearing the words 'over it'. They make Amber's death appear so casual, when it was anything but. Nothing about it was casual. Surprisingly, even to himself, he manages to control his temper by quietly telling himself over and over that House probably doesn't know any better. "No, I'm not over it," his voice only quivers slightly when he repeats those blasphemous words.

House nods sagely. "Any idea when that might be?"

"No."

"You think you will be able to forgive me?"

"There's nothing to forgive."

House didn't expect that answer. He's momentarily dumb-struck. He's been thinking all this time that this was about grovelling and doing the 'I'm so sorry your girlfriend died' thing. Well, shows how wrong you can be.

"I'm just angry," Wilson tries to explain.

"I get that. Believe me, I get anger."

Wilson looks at him for a while. "I suppose you do," he finally says.

"Yeah." House carefully avoids eye contact when he says the next words. "So see you around then?"

"I guess," Wilson smiles and holds out his hand to House. For a second he looks at it like it might bite him, then he shakes it hesitantly.


	17. Meet The Bad Girlfriend

He bursts into the kitchen with a rather dramatic air. The door almost slams into the wall when he throws it open – just almost. He's appropriately breathy and looking rather pissed off. "Why on earth did you leave me out there to deal with him on my own? Have you suddenly become a sadist?"

She's standing with her back turned to him, calmly washing up some dishes in the sink. Apart from those few dirty dishes the kitchen is miraculously clean as if that little disaster from earlier never actually happened. She's successfully eliminated all traces of it which is aching to a small miracle and takes some of the wind out of his sails. "I take it Wilson's already left," she remarks casually.

"Oh, damn right he's left! But you wouldn't know, would you? Leaving me to fend all by myself…It was complete and utter disaster. It was like…like…," he's actually struggling with the words. It's hard to come up with a paragon that would adequately describe the hell he's been through.

"Yes?" she half-turns and looks over her shoulder at him. The slight smile on her face is ever so irritating.

He huffs in annoyance and actually points with his index finger at her accusingly. "You…you…you're a bad girlfriend."

She laughs. He gets more annoyed. "I mean it. You're downright evil. I'm sure you had it all planned out. You invite him over, then you sabotage dinner to find some excuse to stay in the kitchen all evening, so I have to talk to him."

"Yes, Fletcher," she rolls her eyes ironically. "It can't have been that bad because apparently you've had time enough to come up with some wacky conspiracy theories…I'd love for it all to have been just a trick, but I really am that bad at cooking."

"Doesn't change the fact that you're a sucky girlfriend. Doesn't it say somewhere in the contract that you're in this for better and for worse?"

"Well, we're not married and I thought it would be for the better if you dealt with that on your own."

"Aha! So you admit that you stayed in here on purpose."

"Yes, I do," she turns around and looks at him. Her wet hands are dripping water on the floor. "What would you have wanted me to do? Ride in on my white steed and save you?" She's asking matter-of-factly without any real anger in her voice. Quite predictably he doesn't answer her question, instead he settles for glaring at her. She sighs and wipes her wet hand on her jeans, unable find the dish cloth momentarily. "Look, I didn't do this out of malice or because I secretly enjoy seeing you struggle in situations like this. It was just…Well. I figured it would be best if you settled this with Wilson all by yourself. It is something between the two of you. There wasn't an awful lot I could have said or done anyway. Besides you did well with the apology and all."

"So you were listening in, weren't you?" surprisingly he doesn't sound angry anymore. She wonders why that is. Her curiosity is satisfied when he continues to speak. "So? What would do you think? What are my chances? Is Wilson ever going to forgive me?" It's clear to her that the reason he wants to get a second opinion on his talk with Wilson is that he's insecure.

"Not bad, I think," she says hesitantly.

"Good. Because that talk? Honestly, one of the worst experiences in my life. Before I'll do anything like this ever again I'd rather chew off my own arm."

"That bad?" she asks softly. The corners of her mouth curve into the slightest of smiles.

"Yes," he sighs over-dramatically hoping to garner some sympathy.

"Poor baby," she steps up to him and encircles his waist with her arms. Though he's been mad with her just a few minutes ago, now, almost by their own accord, his hands start stroking her back then wander higher to play with her hair. He notices she is not entirely relaxed, maybe something else is on her mind. Maybe she's got more to say. And indeed she does. He loosens the embrace a bit to allow her enough space to move.

She has to lean back a bit to look into his eyes because of the height difference. "I really am proud of you, you know. You did well."

"Gee, thanks. So do I get a gold star now?"

"Is that the way you react to praise?" she shoots back at him. "Your teachers must have been so pleased."

He shrugs his shoulders. "You know I'm an ass," he says instead of an apology.

"Yeah, I do," she smiles up at him before she moves in to hug him again, leaning her head against his chest. It's cozy there and warm. She can smell faint traces of fabric softener still clinging to the shirt, his cologne, him. Everything combined makes her relaxed and comforts her. She smiles against his chest. Her fingers start stroking the nape of his neck. She knows he loves that. He leans into her some more. Some of his weight is resting on her now. He relies on her, trusts her. She likes that. His cane clatters to the ground. He doesn't need it now.

"Greg?" she says softly.

The answer is a long drawn hum.

"Did you really mean it?" Cameron asks cautiously.

"Mean what?" he says, lulled into a daze by her body warmth and the closeness they are sharing.

"You know what I mean…The thing you said before," she tries to clarify.

He pauses to think for a moment. What on earth did he say before?

When he suddenly tenses in her arms, she knows he remembered, but as usual, just like a reflex, he relies on his old defense mechanism. Denial. "I've got no clue what you're trying to say here."

She steps out of the embrace to look at him sternly.

"Oh, that," he hastily says, rubbing the back of his neck embarrassedly.

"Yeah, that," Cameron repeats slowly. The way she's looking at him makes him nervous. Like he's some specimen viewed under a microscope. His thoughts happily digress, because he allows them to. He remembers her standing bent over the microscope in her cute little lab coat, all professional and eager to please. Ah, those were the days! Back then she wouldn't have been nagging him because of an accidental declaration of love.

Damn! She was still looking at him in that unsettling way, her eyebrows arched and a frown on her face. What was he supposed to say?

"I'm beginning to think this is the First International Awkward Conversation Day. Maybe I should go over to Wilson's. Having a conversation with him starts looking more and more appealing by the second…"

"You told me you loved me," she decides to be more aggressive now. The statement even has a slightly enraged undertone as if he said something he should have.

"I did?"

She nods vigorously.

"Well, okay… Maybe I did. Maybe you'll just have to live with that," he awkwardly shifts from one foot to the other, partly because he's feeling uncomfortably, partly because his leg has started aching from standing too long.

The expression on her face softens. She smiles. "It's not that bad actually." She can tell that underneath all those layers of rudeness and denial he's just being insecure. "Don't you want to hear what I have to say about that?" She tilts her head to the side a bit, trying to meet his eye, while he is stubbornly avoiding looking at her, focusing on the dark tiles of the kitchen floor instead.

"I'm not sure. Depends."

"What if I told you that I love you too, would that be okay?"

He looks up at her and smiles. "I guess. But it sounds rather mushy, don't you think? I'm not one for the big declarations of love and all…as I'm sure you're aware."

"No, kidding. Understatement of the month." Despite her sarcastic remark right now she just wants to hug him and shower him with his kisses just for being the way he is, standing there all awkward and looking rather adorable while doing so. For the first time in her life she doesn't actually care that this is the cheesiest thought she's ever had. No, she really doesn't care. For once she's going to allow herself to ride out that endorphin high and be happy, even if she's aware that he's well able to burst her bubble any time. But he won't. Because he doesn't want to. Why would he want to deny himself happiness?

She doesn't waste anymore time thinking about the possibility of an emotional dilemma, she just steps up to him and kisses him, enthusiastically, happily without holding back. He willingly responds, but can't refrain from making a comment once she pulls back. "So the thought of being loved by a brash, crippled drug-addict in his late forties seems to be a huge the turn-on…interesting."

"Stop with the self-deprecation."

"Why? I'm rather good at it."

"Because that's a major turn off." He's intrigued. Oh, that is the direction this conversation is taking. Obviously it isn't as unpleasant as he initially suspected. He's more than prepared to play along.

He hooks his fingers under the waistband of her jeans and pulls her closer. "Any idea what I could do make up for it?"

She smiles naughtily. "No, not really. But tell me some of your ideas, see if I approve." She bites her bottom lip in anticipation. He can't tell whether it's intentional or unintentional, either way it's rather detrimental to forming coherent thoughts.

"Well, to be honest I'm not really that creative right now. Most of my ideas involve stripping you naked and dragging you to the bedroom. Though it doesn't necessary have to be in that order."

"Sounds like a plan to me," she says with a naughty grin on her face before he takes him by the hand and starts moving into the general direction of the bedroom.


	18. Has My Moment Come And Passed?

He already knew right from the start that he would eventually screw this up. It was only a matter of time.

After all there are a couple of things that make having a healthy and rewarding relationship with her seem unlikely. Like for example he has no idea what she expects of him. Alright, he is not that socially retarded not to know that when you're in a relationship you are not supposed to sleep around or act like an insecure, jealous asshole all of the time, but he's sure he's going to mess this up in some way. Not intentionally of course. His toxic personality will be enough to do the trick.

He's never been a people pleaser. To be a people pleaser you have to know the inner workings of the human mind. Check. He is quite good at that. He's able to figure out people easily, yet again he rarely succeeds in pleasing them. It's not that he doesn't know how to. He knows exactly how to. To be able to work their buttons and get under their skin you have to know what people want – being loved, being understood, being wanted, being accepted for who they really are and all that crap –you have to know all that and then give them the extreme opposite of what they want. That way you can get a genuine response out of them. Anger and frustration can some times be more real than a smile. Smiles can be faked. Okay, anger and frustration too, but not that convincingly.

So right now, this situation right here is really, really annoying to him. He's waiting for himself to screw up. It's a truly unpleasant situation because it makes him utterly self-conscious. He's alternating between caring deeply and not caring at all. Because seriously how can he get through the day when he's constantly worrying about hurting Cameron's feelings? He isn't that guy. That thoughtful sensitive type of guy who's afraid of losing the best thing he's ever had: someone who really loves him, although he's all screwed up and damaged and insufferable.

How much that thought really torments him might not be visible to the outward observer that much, but occasionally it shows. He doesn't know how to behave around other people anymore, especially around Cuddy. Their relationship is based on banter, spiced up by a sexual innuendo here and there. In the past it didn't matter whether his comments and deeds where bordering on sexual harassment, now suddenly it does. All because of Cameron. Correction, all because he's afraid of hurting Allison's feelings.

So one day, when he finds himself breezing into Cuddy's office, waving a patient's file into her face, trying to pressure her into allowing him to run all sorts of costly and above all insane tests, he suddenly finds himself at a loss for words. His eyes fall on her inviting cleavage, which is truly shameless today and his mouth just clamps shut. He's helplessly trying to bite back all those inappropriate little comments that would have been rolling of his tongue quite easily under normal circumstances. But now he can't say them anymore, because it's not the right thing to do.

Cuddy doesn't miss the slightly pained look he gives her. "What? I'm shocked. No comment about my indecent choice of clothing today? You do know the routine. You insult and annoy me, then you try to talk me into agreeing to some outrages tests and procedures…" she shoots him an amused look before she leans over the table and takes the file right out of his hand. He lets her take it without protest, thinking about how much he would like to comment on her flashing her tits at him every chance she gets, but instead he bits the insides of his cheeks and waits.

She leaves through the file, occasionally shooting him some preoccupied looks. The comment is almost on the tip of his tongue now. He's having trouble not blurting it out right then and there.

"Ordering another CAT scans seems unreasonable to me," she says. She closes the folder and gets up from her chair to give it back to him, revealing a rather tight pencil skirt in the process.

That does it.

"Well, not as unreasonable as trying to come off as a professional while wearing a hooker outfit. Really? Who are you supposed to be? Mistress Spankalot?" He grins contently, but soon enough that smug grin fades, not because of Cuddy's response, but because he's just learned that there is no way he can deny who he really is. A masochist, misogynist, crippled ass who will send Cameron running for the hills in no time.

A rather depressing thought, isn't it? It goes without saying that he didn't get that CAT scan after all.

So he's not even able to change minor details like that. What use is there in trying then? He can't change who he is. Trying will give him high pressure or a gastric ulcer eventually but it will not improve the situation in general. Failing again and again will certainly not make him proud of his formidable character. It will only make the situation worse. Like scratching an itch that is already infected. So he'll just have to live with the fact that he will eventually lose Cameron and he will have no one to blame for that but himself. He heads to his office, draws the blinds and opens the top drawer of his desk. He looks down at the bottle of Scotch lying in it for a few seconds. It's tempting, but no. He slams the drawer shut and sits down in his chair with an annoyed huff.

Outside the sun is shining as if it wants to mock him. The weather should have the decency to adapt to his moods. The bright sunlight stings his eyes but he won't close the blinds.

What is he supposed to do now that he has come to realize that he will lose her? Normally at this point he would seek out Wilson and bravely endure one of his boring moralizing speeches, but that's not an option any longer. Well, maybe it still is. After their talk during the dinner of disasters he has a feeling that they might get there again eventually, just not yet. So he has to deal with the problem on his own. Maybe it would be best to confront his fears. He knows that he has no control over the situation, that sooner or later he will hurt her or disappoint her in a way that can not be fixed anymore. The only control he can exert over the situation is taking matters in his own hands. What if he doesn't hold back anymore? What if he lets her see how much of an asshole he really is? That will do the trick, right? She will realize her mistake soon enough.

*

When he doesn't show up for their lunch date, Cameron is only mildly surprised. She knows him long enough not to waste her hopes on thinking he would actually be punctual. Still, as the minutes tick by and she eyes the entrance of the cafeteria again and again, waiting for him to show up she can't help but feel a bit annoyed. After a few more minutes she finally loses hope and stops saving the chair opposite of her for him. He won't come. He's probably busy working on a case.

She decides to bring him his beloved Reuben sandwich later, so he can apologize to her for not turning up in person. Walking down the corridor towards his office still feels comforting and nostalgic for some odd reason. She's smiling a little to herself, partly for thinking such foolish thoughts, partly because she's looking forward to seeing him. He's there and not even working as it seems. He's smiling at the TV screen, not bothering to turn around when she enters. She's waiting him to stop the charade, not believing for one second that he actually is that deeply engrossed in a TV show. With a brief sideways glance she quickly verifies her suspicions about the TV program he's enjoying so much he's forgotten all about her. Passions.

Without saying a word she places the sandwich, now wrapped in tinfoil, on his desk. No reaction. He hasn't even turned to look at her. She turns to leave. There is no sense abasing oneself any further, is there? She reaches the door, opens it and leaves without him acknowledging her appearance in any way. The hallway is empty, as is the conference room next door, as she can see through the glass front. She starts walking, but after the first few steps she stops again. What has just happened?

After a rather lengthy internal debate, it takes up the rest of her workday and the better part of the evening, she decides to give him a call. So around what time did her self-dignity die? Approximately 10 pm.

He picks up the phone almost immediately. The conversation is over as quickly as it has started and its aftermath leaves her speechless.

"Hey, I just wanted to know if you're okay…" she opens the conversation almost a bit embarrassed.

"Why shouldn't I be? Everything's fine."

"Alright," she says waiting for him to say more, but doing so in vain.

"So now that you know everything's fine was there something else you wanted?"

"Not really…"

"Well…Good night then."

"Night," she answers distractedly. He hangs up. The next thing she hears is the dial tone. It's like a dramatic exclamation mark at the end of the call. Now it's time to really start worrying.

It goes without saying that she didn't start the next day in particular high spirits. Even before she went to work she was annoyed and exhausted. Around noon she decides it's time for a coffee break. She spends five minutes staring into her coffee. She has just added the milk, it's tentatively mingling with the dark beverage, gradually coloring it beige, when somebody sits down opposite of her. For a moment hope flares inside of her, but when she looks it's Wilson instead of House.

"Reading tea leaves is fairly common, but I doubt it will work with vending machine coffee," he says instead of a greeting. It's their first conversation since that awkward dinner a week ago.

"It's a new thing," she shrugs her shoulders and finally takes a sip of her coffee.

Wilson narrows his eyes. "Are you okay?"

Cameron smirks ironically. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just a rough day, nothing more." She lets out a lengthy breath. "What about you? I haven't seen you around much since last week."

"Well, I was trying to figure out whether I'm angry with you or grateful for forcing me to talk to House."

"Interesting. What conclusion did you reach?"

Wilson briefly deliberates. "I think I'm leaning towards grateful."

"Good, so I don't have to apologize."

"I guess not," he smiles and Cameron can't help but smile back at him. Over the past years they have become friends. She has yet to figure out how it has gotten to this, but she's rather thankful for having a friend like him. He's refreshingly uncomplicated and tolerant. No wonder House is trying so desperately to win back his friendship.

She tries to keep her thoughts from lingering on House. Her petty relationship problems are nothing compared to what Wilson's been through. "How have you been?" she asks finally. Her tone of voice has changed. She speaks lower than usual, after all the topic of their conversation is rather confidential.

"Better, I think," he momentarily evades her gaze. There are dark shadows under his eyes, she notices. "But let's not talk about me. Let's talk about you. What's up with you and House?"

"Why are you asking?"

"He's not here right now."

"We're not joined at the hip."

He chuckles. "You're evading the question."

"Alright," she sighs tiredly. "I thought everything was going fine, the he's suddenly started avoiding me."

"He's avoiding you...," he repeats. His tone of voice tells her he's intrigued. He's probably already close to figure out what happened. There's no doubt on Cameron's mind he's able to do that. Being friends with House for so long, that alone information must be enough to piece the puzzle together. And of course Wilson doesn't disappoint. "That means he's scared of you."

"Scared of me?" she asks incredulously. "Do I look scary to you?"

"No, but maybe it was something you said. You know House. Closeness triggers his flight reflex."

"You sound like a zoologist," she remarks amusedly.

"I guess being friends with House does that to you. You observe, learn which buttons not to push and then you push them on purpose when it's necessary. And eventually he'll do the same to you." His words sound almost wistful.

"You miss him…"

"Yeah, I guess I do," Wilson finally admitted. "Want me to talk some sense into him? I could try to if you want…Also it would be a good opener."

"Thanks, but I'll handle that on my own. You could, however, give him something from me when you go to see him."

He looks at her in puzzlement. "I'm not going to give him a kiss from you if that's what you had in mind."

Cameron laughs. "No worries. It's just a little present from me to him. Something to wake him up."

tbc one last time


	19. Reconciliation

The rapping at the door is persistent and annoying as hell. "I'm coming!" he yells at the door, reassuring whoever is waiting on the other site of it that he will hurry to open, although he's really taking his jolly time. After all he has two rather good excuses: being drunk and being a cripple. He has his suspicions as to who the nightly visitor might be. Since he's not exactly the most popular man on the planet, there isn't a lot of choice anyway. When he opens the door and Wilson's standing there instead of Cameron, he's rather surprised.

"Oh, it's you," he says, turns around unceremoniously and walks back to the couch.

"I expected you to be more surprised." Wilson steps in and closes the door behind him.

"I am. It's just that I'm too drunk and too lazy to really sum up the energy for genuine surprise."

"Who did you expect anyway?"

"Don't insult me by asking superfluous questions."

"It's not superfluous. For all I know you could be waiting for the pizza boy."

"Alright, so I do have to spell it out obviously. I was expecting Cameron."

"Oh, really? Now that's interesting because I'm supposed to give you something from her."

"What a big fucking coincidence! Tell her I'm not interested. Unless it's a bottle of twenty-year-old scotch or a weekend in Mexico with Angelina Jolie, of course."

Wilson takes out a plastic bag from under his coat and eyes it for a moment pensively just for show, then shakes his head and hands it over to House or better throws it at him since he's not really showing any interest in it. House looks at the bag, now lying on his chest with mild disdain before he finally takes a peak inside. It looks like there is a DVD inside the bag. He pulls it out and holds it at arm's length away from his body to be able to read the cover. He has misplaced his reading glasses again or maybe he's lying on top of them…again. _How to lose a guy in ten days_. He frowns. She probably thinks herself very clever and funny. The pink post-it note sticking to the DVD cover confirms his suspicion. The girlish handwriting deriding him from the post-it note is unmistakably Cameron's. "Is that what you want? Let me know."

A shadow falls over him. Wilson's leaning over the back of the couch to read the DVD's title. He seems to think that Cameron has managed to make a quite good joke on his expense. He's chuckling under his breath. House turns and fixes him with a stern look which only makes Wilson laugh harder. Obviously he hasn't read the post-it yet. Or maybe he has. If he had he been in his place, he would have had to make superhuman effort not look inside that bag. He's quite sure Wilson hasn't been able to resist temptation either…

"You've got to admit that she has style," Wilson finally says appreciatively, traces of a smile still audible in his voice. His comment only manages to enrage House further.

"You can hardly call that style. It's slightly stalkerish and creepy," he retorts ill-humouredly.

"Oh, please. Knowing you, I'd say you left her no other choice. You probably haven't been all that communicative in the last couple of days," Wilson sits down in the armchair next to the couch.

"Still," House mimics Cameron's voice, reading out loud the two brief lines written on the note "_Is that what you want? Let me know?!_ Is she trying to really piss me off or is she supposed to come across all insightful and mature?"

Wilson looks at him for a while with a bemused expression on his face before he decides to answer. "I'd say neither. You want to hear what I'm thinking?"

"Not in particular, but it's not going to stop you, is it?"

"No, it never has before either," Wilson smiles. He pauses out of dramaturgic reasons. "You love her."

"That's the big insightful revelation? I'm disappointed in you, Jimmy."

Wilson holds up his index finger admonishingly. "There is more," he announces.

"Isn't there always?" House roles his eyes in mock petulance.

"You're afraid of losing her, so you figured it would be easier if you pushed her away," he looks at House curiously waiting for a confirmation of his suspicion. House is evading eye contact, staring at the floor. The lack of a sarcastic retort is also slightly disconcerting, but only serves as proof that Wilson was right all along.

Wilson patiently continues to wait for an answer from House. It will eventually come. No need to coax it out of him.

"You're wrong. It's not easy," House finally admits, holding out his empty glass to him. Apparently it's his way of asking for a refill.

"So that calls for more Scotch?"

"Yeah, while you're at it, you can help yourself," House tells Wilson who has already disappeared from eyesight, routinely walking over to the liquor cabinet behind the couch. He hears the clinging of glasses, the sound of the bottle being screwed open, the liquor pouring into the first glass, then the second. He only breaks out of his daze when Wilson's hand, holding a glass of scotch under his nose, invades his vision. He takes it from him without a word of thanks and greedily gulps half of it down before he speaks again.

"Scotch doesn't help either."

"Well, if it's so hard why bother trying?" Wilson suggests slyly before he takes a sip of his own scotch.

House smiles humorlessly. "Nice try."

"Seriously," Wilson leans forward, putting down his glass on the coffee table. "Most people would rather be happy than unhappy. With you it's the other way around."

"It's not. I just know that I'll mess it up in some way," House announces darkly.

In his heart of hearts Wilson knows that House is probably right, but he's not become that much of a cynic yet to deny the possibility that things might actually work out between House and Cameron. Since Amber's death he's managed to sort of float through life. He's been emotionally detached, except for the occasions when House unwittingly trampled on his feelings like the proverbial bull in the china shop. What he discovers now, and that to his own surprise, is that House's comment has deeply upset him. Yes, he might even be really angry. Angry as hell.

"Oh, I would love to kick your sorry ass right now…," Wilson whispers angrily before he takes another sip of scotch.

"You would?" House is amused. "What's keeping you?"

"I'm too old and tired and your damn scotch is making me doubt my aim," he murmurs ill-humoredly.

"One more reason to love that stuff," House raises his glass in a mock salute. "One question though…Why do you want to kick my ass all of a sudden?"

"Do you really need to ask?"

"So it's my turn with the psychoanalyzing? Neat!"

"Knock yourself out."

"It's because of Amber, right?" Wilson doesn't say anything, so House feels encouraged to continue. "You feel like life screwed you over and robbed you off your chance with her. Now you're pissed because I'm throwing away my relationship with Cameron. Is that about it?"

"Yes," this one word is positively uttered with an icy chill.

"Well, I don't know if it's any consolation to you, but I think I might not actually able to go through with it. That's the whole reason I'm sitting here drinking."

"Oh." Wilson's apparently still pissed, so he has to provide him with more information to appease him.

"It's because I'm too egoistic, just so that we're clear about that."

"Right, no sentimental reasons whatsoever."

"Nope," House annoyingly pops the 'p' in that word, which lets Wilson know his previous statement is an utter and complete lie. He only plays cool when things really matter to him.

"You know what's funny?" House asks out of the blue.

Wilson straightens in the arm chair. In the last couple of minutes he has made himself comfortable there, rather slouching than sitting. "No, but you're doubtlessly going to tell me."

"Since you mentioned the pizza boy all I can think about is a Four Seasons pizza with extra cheese. Wanna order a pizza?"

"Yeah, why not."

House grins contently. Who knew things could be fixed that easily. He should have known that Wilson would not be able to resist meddling with his person life for long.

tbc


	20. Happily Ever After

Wilson wakes up in the middle of the night. His neck is sore. He's fallen asleep in House's armchair. To be precise he not so much fell asleep as passed out because after his first glass of scotch he had a couple of more. He had not planned on getting drunk and philosophizing with House about grave stuff like the sense of life, women and why take away pizza always tastes better when eaten right out of the box. Speaking of the devil...he's looking around for House, expecting him to be lying right over there on the couch, but he's not there. He straightens a bit in his armchair to be able to better look around the living room. Getting up doesn't seem advisable at this point. The apartment door is open, House is nowhere in sight, so he draws his conclusions. Ill-humoredly he heaves his tired bones over to the door and closes it. "I hope he's not stupid enough to drive in his condition," he thinks before he collapses on the couch and falls asleep again.

*

House has finally arrived at his destination. Since walking down the corridor of his apartment building had already proven difficult he had decided against his initial plans of taking his bike or Wilson's car. For once in his life he had chosen to do the responsible thing. He'd called a taxi. The drawback of the whole thing was just that the cab driver seemed to be incredibly dense. How could he not know where to drive when he had clearly told him that he wanted to go to Cameron's place? Very dense indeed and circumstantial. Well, anyway he had managed to arrive where he wanted to go. It had taken longer than he expected. But what went as expected these days?

Again with the corridors… This one is giving him even more trouble than the one at home. He can't find the light switch right away and accidentally rings the door bell of some rude guy that hisses "asshole" at his retreating back before he closes the door again angrily. He's more careful now and finally arrives at Cameron's door. He rings. Once. Twice. Three times. No one answers. He's mildly disappointed and decides to ring again. More insistently this time. Maybe if he leaves his finger on the button it will increase the effect. What do you know? It worked. Finally he hears the padding of feet, then everything's silent again for a short moment. She's probably looking through the spy hole. He waves at her dutifully. A long drown sigh of exasperation can be heard from the other side of the door. She finally opens and lets him in. He stumbles over the threshold clumsily, smiling a stupid, but triumphant drunk smile. He feels like Odysseus who's just come home to Ithaca after a long and tedious odyssey.

She standing there looking at him in disbelieve. Actually she's kind of cute in her loose cotton pajama pants and her black tank top. Her hair is swept up in a messy bun; apparently she just wanted to get it out of her face not caring what she looked like. She seems to be irritated about something. He wonders what it might be and finally decides to ask her about it.

"You're drunk," she says accusatory.

"Really?" he laughs. "I didn't notice." His own jokes are even funnier now that he has downed half a bottle of Scotch.

"You don't talk to me for days and then you show up at my door in the middle of the night and you're drunk." She has summed up the whole situation quite accurately in a few words. He's proud of her.

"Exactly," he smiles smugly. "But I've showed up."

"I'm not impressed. If you don't mind, I'd very much like to get back to bed. In case you haven't noticed, it's 4 am."

"Well, going back to bed sounds fine to me."

"Yes, except that I'll be going there alone. You can sleep on the couch."

"The couch? I'm hurt," he actually pouts like a little boy.

"Yes, the couch," she tells him sternly. "That's all you can expect. It's certainly more than you deserve."

"Ouch, you're certainly nasty today."

"If I was nasty, I would have slammed the door in your face, House," she informs him coolly. "Now go to sleep!"

"Yes, Ma'am!" He mock salutes. She just shakes her head in disapproval. A look of helpless disbelief crosses her face but it disappears again just as quickly. She turns around and walks back into her bedroom.

"Just so you know, I'm going to snore lot and purposefully," he calls at her retreating back.

"Don't you always do that?" she answers in a mildly amused tone before she closes the bedroom door, effectively ending their conversation.

*

Cameron wakes up from peaceful sleep, not to the sound of House's loud snoring. No. She has the distinct feeling of being watched. It's not unpleasant as such. The gaze that lingers on her doesn't feel hostile, but it won't allow her to sleep peacefully either. She turns around, emitting a little groan of displeasure. That's all she's capable of right now. Minutes ago she wrapped in pleasantly dreamless slumber. Now the drowsiness is slowly subsiding, allowing her to perceive more and more of her environment. She's not shocked to find somebody sitting next to her in bed. She's by now used to his presence there. Unconsciously she snuggles close to him. He seems to be pleased by that. His fingers start caressing her hair almost immediately. It's a gesture he's used to. He does that sometimes when they are lying in bed together, slowly drifting away. She's almost about to fall asleep again, his caress is rather comforting, but before she can everything returns to her. The last few days during which he has so relentlessly ignored her, him showing up at her doorstep complete drunk. She stiffens in his embrace. He sighs and stops stroking her hair.

"Didn't I tell you to go sleep on the couch?" she says ill-humoredly. She reaches for the switch of the lamp sitting on the bedside table. She finds it eventually. The light is warm and orange, but it blinds her eyes nevertheless. She crosses her arms over her chest and leans against the headboard, glaring at him disapprovingly. Right now she's general disapproving of everything he does. Nobody can hold that against her after the week she's been through.

"You're not there," he explains. He appears to be remarkably more sober now. As if he had had time to think it through and feel sorry about his bad entrance from earlier.

"Well, that was the whole point of you sleeping on the couch."

"I was lonely there and my leg hurt." He gives her his best puppy dog eyes.

"And I've been lonely the better part of last week."

"Yeah, about that," he embarrassedly rubs the back of his neck, "that was really stupid."

She says nothing. Her face looks impassive and devoid of emotions, but he knows for a fact inside she is anything but unfazed.

"Seems that I'm doing a lot of apologizing lately…," he laughs nervously.

She turns around to look at him. Her eyes are full off anger. She fires the next words at him as if they were torpedoes. "Maybe that's something you should think about then."

"What are you so angry about?" The words have hardly left his mouth and he already knows that that was a bad move.

"I could explain but you wouldn't understand."

"Try me."

"Alright," she takes a deep breath. This conversation seems to rather annoy her. But who is he to blame her? He's woken her twice in the middle of the night. You can't hardly expect anyone to be in a particular good mood after that. "So, you tell me that you love me and right the next day you decide you don't want to talk to me or even see me anymore. Do you have any idea how that made me feel?"

"No," he lowers his head ashamedly, "but I do have an inkling."

"You've made me feel worthless and insecure. Like I had gone insane and started imaging things. You told me you loved me. Why did you do that? You don't do something like that to people you love." The anger in her eyes has been replaced by something akin to despair. He hasn't realized how much he hurt her until now. The way she looks at him now is like a punch to the stomach and what is worse, he knows he deserves to feel bad for what he's done to her.

"You're right you don't do that to people you love." She visible stiffens when she hears him say those word, poised for the next blow. "I do that to people I love." He has trouble saying those words, but the fear of losing her forces him to say them.

"That doesn't even make any sense." She's clearly disappointed with his answer which makes him fear he has to elaborate further to really make her understand. He's not sure he wants to allow her glimpsing into the abyss that is his psyche that much, but right now he has no other option.

"It does make sense in a very illogical, twisted sense if you think about it." He's trying to stir her in the right direction so he won't have to say those words himself. "It's sort of a protection mechanism."

"You're trying to protect yourself from what? From being happy?"

He shakes his head. She doesn't get it. Not because she's not smart enough to do so, but because her mind is too clouded by emotion right now to allow for rational thought.

"No, from losing you."

Initially she frowns at his words, but then realization starts spreading on her face. "You want to protect yourself from losing me by pushing me away? Why do you think you would lose me?"

He won't answer that. He doesn't need to. There is something in his eyes. She's seen glimpses of it a lot in the last couple of years. It's sometimes there when he lets his guard down, which doesn't happen very often, so one has to be rather lucky to catch it. It's despair. Despair and misery. She knows that his outlook on life is not rosy, that he doesn't see humanity in a very positive light, but now an old suspicion is confirmed she's always harbored in the last couple of years. Yes, he despises humanity, but the person he despises most of all is himself. This discovery makes her unable to hate him, she has never been capable of doing so to begin with. She can't even hold a grudge against him anymore. All she wants to do right now is take him into her arms and make it better, although she knows she can't possibly fix him. She's not some kind of wand brandishing Fairy Godmother. He has to fix himself.

Maybe even saying those next couple of words is senseless, but she says them anyway and she will say them a thousand times more because she loves him. "You're not a bad person."

"I am," he insists. "I hurt you."

"I can take care of myself. I'm a big girl," she reassures him.

"But eventually there will be point where you can't take it anymore. You'll be fed up with me and then you'll tell me to go to hell," he's desperate to bring his point across as clearly as he can. She doesn't seem to have understood yet.

"Maybe there will be, but I don't see that happening anywhere in the near future. I'm in this relationship because I love you. You don't need to protect me. I have a pretty good idea of who you are and probably half of the hospital will want to institutionalize me for what I'm going to say next, but I love you just the way you are."

He smiles affectionately at her. "That sounds very good."

"It does, doesn't it?"

"Yeah, almost too good," he sighs. He would very much like to quit being the eternal sceptic but it's in his nature to ask the next question. "Then why do I have the sneaking suspicion you don't know what you're getting yourself into?"

She lets out an incredulous little laugh. "Please, House! Don't offend me. I'm way passed that phase in my life where I have some girlish fantasies about 'and they lived happily ever after.' Life doesn't work that way. There are usually more downs than ups. But it tends to suck less when there's someone there to hold your hand."

"Spoken like the true romantic you are."

"Spoken like the true pessimist you are."

He gives her a disbelieving look.

"Listen, I think that's the whole problem here. You're entirely too pessimistic for your own good. You give up before you've even tried. This is only the beginning. We're only at the beginning."

"The thing you don't seem to understand, Cameron," he hesitates and takes a deep breath before he continues to speak, "what you don't understand that I don't want to lose you. I tried going a week without you and see where it's gotten me? I turn up drunk at your doorstep."

She smiles. "Yeah, the highlight of the week."

"Don't make fun of me," he says softly.

"I'm not. And just for the record I don't want to lose you either." She snuggles closer to him. Her head is resting on his chest where she can hear his heartbeat. It's rather fast. His relatively calm exterior didn't let on how upset he really was by this whole conversation. She starts stroking his arms to calm him, partially to calm herself. Lying there in the semi dark of her bedroom is something comfortingly familiar to her.

"We're so cheesy, it's disgusting," he says amusedly after a while.

"If this here is too cheesy for you, you can always go back to sleeping on the couch," she suggests with a smile on her face. He looks down at her and takes in her disheveled hair, her closed eyes, the way her face is so relaxed and serenely beautiful. He doesn't want to be anywhere but here.

"Nah, I think I can cope with the cheesiness under the circumstance."

"Thought so."


End file.
